To Serve With Honor
by Knightmare Frame Razgriz
Summary: Specialists Winter Schnee and Jonathan Amsel of the Atlas Military arrive in Vale to investigate a string of robberies and attacks that threaten the stability of the entire Kingdom. But while Professor Ozpin reveals Winter's companion as the two-years-absent Jaune Arc, can the young man truly claim to have emerged from his days of service in the Atlas Foreign Legion unscathed?
1. Prologue

_\- To Serve With Honor -_

 _ **Jaune Arc  
Two Years Ago**_

"Name?" the lightly-armored giant crammed behind the white metal matchbox desk rumbled.

"Jaune Arc!" the tall, lean teenager on the other side replied proudly, resting his hands at his hips and puffing out his slight chest. The other man rolled his eyes without looking up from the terminal.

"For record-keeping purposes, is this a legal name or an assumed name?"

"Uh, legal, I guess? Not really sure why I would-"

"-word of advice, son," the giant cut him off, continuing to tap away at his holographic keyboard, "Most foreigners don't enlist in the Legion with their legal name."

"Well, why's that?" Jaune asked with a weak grin.

"Tradition, among other reasons," the man grunted, finally glancing up from his keyboard and fixing Jaune with a blank stare. "The Legion is mostly made up of people from Mantle, because the Legion was originally created to allow Mantle citizens to earn Atlas citizenship. Because of this, it's something of a custom for foreign recruits to adopt a traditional Mantlese name. Even if it's painfully obvious to anybody you meet that you're not really a native, it'll still help you blend in a bit better with the rest of your training section, and - if you make it that far - your Legion unit."

"Oh, well - I guess that makes sense?" the teen said with a nervous chuckle, only to stop when he noticed that the man had already returned to staring at his terminal. Jaune shuffled from one foot to the other as he glanced around the room, and the two existed in silence for a short while before the giant looked up again, this time with an impatient glare.

"Well?"

"Oh! I uh, don't know any Mantlese," Jaune admitted with a brittle grin, scratching at that back of neck. "Any suggestions?"

The giant snorted derisively and slapped his palms on the desk, causing Jaune to tense; before relaxing as he simply rolled his chair backwards to recline and look the boy up and down with a single unimpressed brown iris.

"... You're gonna look like a John, know matter what you end up doing," he finally grunted, hunching forward and resting a meaty hand on a muscular thigh. "Might wanna think about dying that hair; color's pretty memorable, 'specially with the recent generation's tendency towards either straw-blond or brown."

"Oooo-kay…?" Jaune drawled with a quizzical look, folding his arms across his chest.

"Something like black, though, and you'd probably fit right in with the low-landers. I can get a kind of avian picture out of it…" The giant was leaning back again, one hand cupping his chin and scratching thoughtfully at the beginnings of no doubt fast-growing stubble, the other tucked beneath his elbow against the black bodysuit encasing his upper body.

"Like a black… bird…?" Jaune offered haltingly, unnerved by the odd verbal contemplation.

"Bingo," The giant snapped his fingers and pointed, nodding in apparent agreement. "John Amsel - make it Jonathan for extra authenticity. You gonna remember that, kid?"

"I guess?" Jaune shrugged, conveying his uncertainty with his hands raised and held palms-skyward at chest height. "Is it really necessary, though?"

"You'll be thanking me once you run into another foreigner that's kept his name and see what it's gotten him," the man grunted, rolling back up to his terminal and typing in the name. "So, Jonathan Amsel. Age… Sixteen?"

"Seventeen," Jaune corrected, rattling off his date of birth as the man nodded along. A few more basic questions - blood type, kingdom of origin, previous level of education - and after another fifteen minutes of Q and A, the giant tapped a finger against an indentation on the part of the desk nearest to Jaune, and a slanted holographic display appeared, displaying all of the information that he had just reported, along with several paragraphs of microscopic print above a signature line.

"Simply put, the legal bullshit you see there says that once you've signed on that line, you are committed in full to your first contract of service with the Atlas Foreign Legion for the entire six-year duration, barring disqualification as a result of the medical examination; at any point during Basic Military Training at Ramstein; or at any time during active duty that you are deemed unfit for continued service and are officially discharged," the giant drawled, settling back in his chair and folding his large arms across his chest. He at least had the courtesy to meet Jaune's eyes this time, the teen noted, nodding in acceptance before looking down and skimming through the paragraphs for himself.

The language was pretty benign, if fairly open-ended; and he noted with some confusion several asterisks scattered across the information, with no corresponding footnotes or appendices in sight for explanation. Against his better judgement, and noting the man's look of intense boredom, Jaune didn't ask any questions, reasonably content with his own reading and comprehension offered by his high school education.

He moved to scrawl a signature on the dotted line, only for his finger to stop a breath away from the display as a terrible weight and uncertainty materialized and settled on his mind.

* * *

" _Jaune Arc, your application to Beacon Academy has hereby been formally denied. Perhaps you might try again next year, after you have more… Relevant, experience under your belt."_

 _A tiny bit of relief, eclipsed by a sense of crushing defeat._

" _Oh Jaune, sweetie, I'm so sorry to hear that. But don't worry - your father, sisters and I don't think any less of you for it, and we'll be glad to have you back home. The life of a Huntsman just isn't cut out for everyone."_

 _Shame… betrayal, resentment, desperation._

 _An advertisement. Images of men and women in gleaming white armor, standing tall and proudly marching in ranks before cheering crowds. Videos of sleek white robots and more troopers firing into hordes of Grimm with rifles and cannons, pushing back the creatures of darkness. A soldier standing on the back of a truck, passing boxes of supplies and foodstuffs to grateful civilians._

 _Hope. A final surge of determination, tempered by a lingering burden of fear._

* * *

 _Dad,_

 _If you're reading this letter, then you've hopefully received Crocea Mors, too. Sorry about the snail mail; I didn't have enough Lien to cover express shipping on the package… Yes, I'm dodging the issue, don't look at me like that._

 _I'm really sorry, but I just can't come home right now. Not like this. I guess it was stupid of me to leave in the first place - I don't even know what I was thinking, trying to apply to_ the _Beacon Academy with nothing but my high school transcripts…_

 _Well, that's not really true; I know_ exactly _why I left. I left because all of my life, to become a Huntsman is all I've ever wanted to do - to live up to the Arc legacy, to find the adventures and acts of heroism that would one day fill textbooks and be told by parents as bedtime stories to bright-eyed and awestruck little kids… To make something of myself,_ for _myself._

 _Well, it looks like I won't be doing that from Beacon anytime soon. But hey… Maybe it'll do me good to get out of Vale for awhile, and see the rest of Remnant. Maybe pick up some actual training and experience along the way, and really just see where the wind takes me._

 _I'll try to get in touch in a few months. Give mom and the girls my love, and I'll see you… When I see you, I guess._

 _Sincerely,  
_ _Jaune_

* * *

"Last real chance to back out with no hard feelings, son," the giant's voice started Jaune back to reality; he rattled his head briefly to clear the cobwebs and blinked away any moisture in his eyes before looking up to meet the man's hard stare. "You'll get to keep your heart and mind as a signing bonus, but after you put a name on that line… Your body and soul belongs to the Legion."

Jaune looked down again, finger still poised above the screen, before exhaling deeply; the conflict on his face melted away, his mouth set in a grim line, and his eyes hardening with determination.

"This is my last chance…" he whispered to himself. "I've already failed once; I'm too far gone to turn back now."

Jaune scrawled his new name across the line; the holographic display blinked once before retracting into the desk surface. He looked up to find the giant's face set in a stony mask of indifference.

"Kid," he rumbled solemnly, "You haven't even begun to comprehend the rabbit hole that you've just jumped down."

He extended a spade-sized hand, which easily enveloped Jaune's own as he shook it. "I am Chief Sergeant Aaron Hoess," he intoned, his words - even at a regular conversational volume - reverberating through Jaune's bones.

"Recruit Jonathan Amsel - allow me to be the first to formally welcome you to the Atlas Foreign Legion."

* * *

 ** _Beacon Academy - Office of the Headmaster  
_** _ **Present Day**_

* * *

"So James has chosen to do away with the guise of trust, and defaults to looking over our shoulders now," Glynda observed, watching from beneath furrowed brows as the white and grey Atlesian gunship settle at one of the landing pads opposite Beacon's main campus.

"An eye for an eye, Glynda, I can assure you," Ozpin replied placatingly from her side, the light pouring through the large semi-circular picture window of his office catching the small round spectacles perched at the end of his nose. He nursed his omnipresent coffee mug emblazoned with the laurel and crossed axes of the Kingdom of Vale. "While James's men are occupied with investigating the latest string of Dust robberies here in Vale, Qrow is meanwhile free to explore and learn more about the current state of Atlas from within its tightly-controlled borders, replete with diplomatic immunity."

"Please never use the words 'Qrow' and 'diplomatic immunity' in the same sentence ever again," the Deputy Headmistress pleaded with an exaggerated shudder. "Besides which, even within the kingdom-proper, James runs Atlas as a model police state. The odds that he will let a foreigner - let alone Qrow Branwen of all men - out of his sight long enough to learn anything of value are incredibly slim."

"You truly believe that Qrow will not take every given opportunity to incense James to the point that he'll want him out of his sight by any means necessary?" Ozpin looked to his aide with an amused smirk and a quirked brow, to which Glynda rolled her eyes and evaded his gaze by examining her Scroll tablet.

"Point taken," she grudgingly conceded, flicking through reports and camera feeds. After a moment of searching, she finally found the feed that she was searching for, and magnified the view. "And of course, James would send _her_ ," Glynda's features tightened into a controlled frown, belying her intense displeasure. Ozpin glanced over her shoulder to examine the feed, and took a short, contemplative sip from his mug.

"Now there is a face I did not think I would be seeing again so soon," he commented vaguely.

"What do you mean? She just called here last week, inquiring incessantly after news of-"

Glynda stopped, blinked, and then squinted hard at the image. Finally, after several moments of silence, in which Ozpin indulged smugly in another drink, she heaved a sigh of defeat. "Alright, I give up - who is he?"

"I'm sure you'll remember by the time they arrive," Ozpin replied with a cryptic smile, turning to settle into his high-backed chair and open up his terminal with a hand gesture. Glynda closed her eyes and exhaled deeply through her nose, trying to suppress fleeting fantasies of dumping her boss's mug over his own head.

Several minutes later, one of the elevators across the sprawling office space chimed quietly over the constant ticking of the latticework of massive gears moving in sequence on the walls and overhead. The doors slid quietly aside, admitting two newcomers garbed in white and blue.

"Specialist Schnee," Ozpin greeted from his desk, closing the holographic display and looking up with a pleasant smile. "Welcome to Beacon Academy. I trust your journey was pleasant?"

Winter Schnee strode forward with a regal and purposeful gait, heels muted on the thinly-carpeted floor. She stopped in front of the desk, at roughly the center of the room, her head held high and nose turned ever-so-slightly upwards. She never smiled.

"Professor Ozpin; thank you for having us. We were… Sidetracked, once or twice on the way, but otherwise encountered no real difficulties."

"Wonderful to hear." Ozpin leaned back in his chair and turned his gaze to the young man standing closely behind and to Winter's right side. "While you and I are of course acquainted, Winter, I must confess that I'm not familiar with your colleague." Winter nodded, and took a short step aside, while her companion took a step forward.

"Of course, my apologies. This is Specialist Jonathan Amsel, a recent addition to the program. He's a promote from the ranks of the military, and has been under my tutelage for the last several months; General Ironwood assigned him along with me for this task so that he might gain valuable experience in both diplomacy and criminal investigation."

Ozpin was silent for a time, continuing to fix Specialist Amsel with an amused stare.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Amsel," Glynda offered somewhat awkwardly, at the same time shooting her boss a sideways glare. The young man turned his gaze from Ozpin's and offered a simple nod and a small smile, which the Deputy Headmistress returned.

Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, in which Ozpin and Amsel seemed content to engage in a silent staring contest, the Beacon Headmaster finally spoke.

"I was wondering where your travels might have taken you. I must confess that, while I expected some form of military service, I never would have predicted your ending up in this position, here, today… Mister Arc."

Glynda's brows shot into her hairline, while Winter immediately pressed forward. "Professor, it seems that you are under a mistaken impression-"

"No mistake, I'm quite certain," Ozpin cut in cheerfully, "And I'm also quite sure that you yourself are under no such delusions either, Miss Schnee, given that he is _your_ protege, and you are _his_ sponsor, and would therefore be required to know his identity in order to legally sponsor him for the Specialist Program - lest the both of you be accused under Atlesian law of Grand Treason."

The air in the room grew heavy, and Glynda was looking quickly between Ozpin, Winter, and the young man as though she wasn't entirely sure of who she should be more suspicious of.

"The haircut and dye, as well as the additional weight and muscle definition are more than sufficient to throw off any recognition from previous physical descriptions and identification," Ozpin continued, "Not to mention the various physical scars - very expertly disguised by a light and unobtrusive touch of makeup, I might add."

Glynda now openly gaped at the Headmaster, and quickly moved to apologize, only for the silent Specialist to raise a hand towards her submissively with a small frown. He then raised a hand to his face, running it down his forehead, along the curve of his jaw, and over his neck; when it came away, he now sported a thin white line running down his temple, along with cratering on the edge of his jawline, and an angry red gash across the his throat. Glynda bristled as she took note of the shame in the young man's eyes, and turned to chastise Ozpin, only to find him continuing to hold the Specialist's gaze with an unrepentant half-smile.

"You might've gotten away with it, if not for the inquiries of your family. I must've received several dozen messages from your sisters alone, not to mention your parents barging into my office in the middle of a work day, demanding to know where I had sent you."

The Specialist's features were now twisted into a deep mortification that Glynda was intimately familiar with from her own work; his cheeks were painted scarlet, and he let out a soft groan as his face fell into his hand.

"So then, Jaune Arc," Ozpin leaned forward and propped his elbows on his desk, interlacing his fingers in front of his face and peering over top of them. "How exactly is it, that a young man from Vale - enlisted in the Atlas Foreign Legion under an assumed name - achieves not only a transfer into the regular military of the most xenophobic kingdom on Remnant, but a coveted position in James's brainchild Specialist Program?"

Specialist Jonathan Amsel of the Atlas Military - formerly Jaune Arc of Vale - stared at his boots for quite some time, before finally replying. "Politics, Professor," he confessed, looking up at Ozpin and Glynda with shining blue eyes that were, at the moment, somewhere between contrite and nostalgic.

"Everything in Atlas begins and ends with politics."

* * *

 **End Prologue**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to _To Serve With Honor_ , my first proper foray into the RWBY archive. My name is Knightmare Frame Razgriz - you can refer to me simply as KMF, Razgriz, or just Raz - and I will be your author for the duration of this journey.**

 **As is stated in the summary, this story is an AU from RWBY canon. In the present context, this is distinguished by Jaune being two years older than the bulk of his canon peers; he applied for Beacon around the time of his seventeenth birthday, two years prior to the canon timeline. He also decided that, rather than gambling potentially his entire career on forged transcripts, he would take his civilian educational transcripts - that is, primary and secondary school - along with his limited extracurriculars, and take a shot at getting in on something closer to charity than merit. The results are seen above.**

 **The Atlas Foreign Legion is based on the French Foreign Legion of our world, adapted for readability to English with elements of Germanic language and lore. More information about the organization and its place in Atlas will come to light over the course of the story, and some perceptions of the group - such as how Legionnaires are viewed within 'cultured' Atlesian society - have already appeared in the White Trailer, which can be found in my stories.**

 **This story on the whole is constructed around my personal concept of what the Kingdom of Atlas - its history, culture, and government - _could_ be. **

**When Volume 6 drops - and we hopefully get to Atlas in a timely fashion, without another entire volume of filler - I will make not be trying to abide by canon. This is _my_ Atlas, and barring the possible addition of minor characters to fill the shoes of original characters, my Atlas will most likely not be Monty's, Miles's, or Kerry's Atlas. **

**I will be making a conscious effort to keep Author's Notes short, because I feel like anything else breaks the meta and draws attention too far away from the story. As such, if I feel the inclination to directly address a minor question, I will either do so in a PM, in a designated section of my profile, or by some other means.**

 **However, if a matter of confusion is expressed by enough people, I will incorporate it into an Author's Note. If I fail to do so, then you can interpret my silence as a promise that your question will be answered by the end of the story.**

 **A major note tying back to the AU premise of the story that I will clarify immediately: This is not the only story that I will be writing in this universe. I have at least one other future work, of a differing premise and under a different genre, which will take place within the same setting and timeframe as _To Serve With Honor_ , and will even overlap in peripheral or primary plot in some places. I'm going to keep fairly hush about it until I'm closer to the date of first release, but I can promise that it will revolve around Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, Papa Bear, and A Clockwork Orange. Stay tuned for more details. **

**Finally, for those of you that are joining me from the White Trailer, I thank you for your continued patronage, and hope that the main event lives up to your expectations. In that vein, however, I offer a note of clarification concerning characterization: As you might already know from the announcement that I tacked onto the end of the trailer, the _majority_ of Part 3 of the White Trailer has officially been designated as Omake, or non-canon for this story. The reason being that, upon reading the reactions to Part 3, and consulting with my informal Beta/sounding board/good friend, Crosswire, I realized that I put out that portion in haste in a misplaced effort to bring some sense of closure that, in retrospect, was entirely unnecessary. The bulk of the characterizations and interactions were entirely too campy for my vision of this story, and while I am somewhat disheartened to have to discard the dinner scene, I have also concluded that that particular portrayal of Jacques was unfortunately inaccurate to my intent.**

 **I offer my sincerest thanks to garoorar, however, for pointing out in one of the first reviews for this story that writing off the entirety of Part 3 would result in the loss of the pavilion scene, where Winter explains her motives in taking on Jaune to Weiss. As such, I have amended Part 3 by slightly modifying the circumstances for the meeting, and moving it up to the top of the section to be designated as the sole piece of canon in the section.**

 **A few more bits of relevant info will accompany Chapter 1, which will be posted this weekend, due to the short length of this prologue.**

 **Thank you all for joining me, and I hope that you have taken sufficient interest to accompany me for more drama and intrigue here in _To Serve With Honor_.**

 **Best Regards,  
Knightmare Frame Razgriz**

* * *

 **EDIT (16 Feb, 2018) - Amended the Author's Notice to reflect an important revision to Part 3 of the White Trailer.**


	2. Chapter 1

_\- To Serve With Honor -_

' _Well, I'd say that that's a suitably vague and unhelpful note to leave off on,'_ Jaune noted with some small measure of pride as Professor Ozpin and Miss Goodwitch stared at him expectantly. He opted to offer a blank stare in return as he settled into a loose parade rest, feet spreading apart slightly as he held one hand in the other behind his back.

General Ironwood, in his rare moments of candidness - during which he managed to willfully forget or ignore Jaune's presence - was fond of ranting about the Beacon Headmaster's propensity for deliberate and cheerful obtuseness. ' _I can see the appeal,'_ the Legionnaire grinned like a loon internally; the air of mystery and control almost helped him forget the nerves which threatened to reduce him to a babbling, apologetic mess.

He noticed that Miss Goodwitch looked to his left at Winter for elaboration; he needed only to watch the Deputy Headmistress's dry, half-hearted glare to know that his mentor remained just as stone-faced and silently obstinate.

Finally, Ozpin cleared his throat and raised his mug to his lips once more. "I assume that the two of you have already been briefed in regards to your roles here?"

"We will be cooperating with the Vale Police Department and any other relevant investigative services in the pursuit of determining the motives behind the recent Dust thefts in the city," Winter recited coolly. "Once the culprits have been identified, we will then be assisting in their apprehension, so as to stabilize the local economy and allow the normal Dust trade to resume."

Ozpin nodded along; when the elder Specialist stopped, however, he continued to look on expectantly. After several moments of confused silence, the Headmaster's lips curled upwards, and he chuckled quietly.

"It seems that there was a failure of communication on James's end. You will also have your secondary assignments: This is the condition by which you will be allowed to remain at and operate from Beacon during your investigation." Glynda sent the man a sideways glance.

Jaune felt the latent knot of anxiety in his stomach double in size, and coil even tighter. "What exactly would these assignments entail, sir?" he rasped from the combination of healing vocal cords and a suddenly dry throat.

"You both will be assisting the staff of Beacon in regular instruction during the coming semester," Ozpin declared with a decidedly unsympathetic smile as Jaune choked on thin air. "Miss Schnee will provide introductory political science lectures each week, to supplement the material taught by our resident historian, Doctor Bartholomew Oobleck; while you, Mister Arc, will be expected to sit in on standard first-year courses as a Teacher's Assistant, rotating to whichever instructors have greatest need of your services at a given time."

Winter was more controlled in her astonishment, restraining herself to a sharp wince. "Professor, are you sure that there has not been some misunderstanding…?" she trailed off weakly, and wilted when even the implacable Miss Goodwitch smirked back in amusement.

"Quite certain I'm afraid, Miss Schnee," Ozpin replied cheerily. "James was very clear in assuring me that I was free and in fact encouraged to put both of your talents and experience to good use amongst my faculty and staff. I feel I must also note that, should your investigation conclude early, you will still be required to remain until the end of the marking period in your respective capacities, as per this arrangement."

Jaune was finally able to settle his racing heart and end his pantomime of a drowning statue long enough to shoot Winter a panicked glance. She caught onto his concern immediately, and schooled herself before turning back to address Ozpin. "Professor, with all due respect... While I am aware of my own qualifications for the assignment, having lectured at Atlas Academy on several occasions; I doubt that the same holds true for my colleague."

"Do you truly believe that, Miss Schnee?" the Headmaster asked dryly as he leaned back in his chair.

"My personal belief in the matter is not the issue, sir," Winter replied evenly, standing tall and meeting the man's gaze.

"You need not be concerned, Winter," Miss Goodwitch took a short step forward, one eye flicking over a stream of information crossing the screen of a Scroll tablet as she watched him with and spoke, "Mister Am- _Arc_. Your service record indicates that, prior to your nomination and enrollment in the Specialist Program, you were on the fast track for a squad-level command in the Sixty-Third Foreign Quick Reaction Regiment." She cradled the device in the crook of her arm and swiped a finger across the screen. "Reports from your superiors note your propensity for acclimating fresh recruits and replacements to their rank and station within a squad and section; as well as your tactical acumen in taking charge of small units for spontaneous and often life-saving maneuvers in unorthodox combat situations. Along with these notes are several accolades and informal commendations for courage and honorable service."

"I see no issue with allowing the presence of such a decorated young veteran in our midst," Ozpin concluded, looking between the two Specialists with an innocent smile.

"The issue is that none of that is connected to Jaune Arc," Jaune himself stepped forward and rumbled weakly. "That service record in your hands is for Corporal Jonathan Amsel."

Miss Goodwitch frowned in confusion at that. "Vale's records can be legally amended-"

" _No._ " Both Beacon administrators started slightly at the vehement denial. "I don't want my service in Atlas to be tied back to my… my family's name."

Ozpin's brows furrowed. "Might I inquire as to why?"

Jaune sighed, his entire body uncoiling in a single long breath. "I just… Taking off for Atlas after I was turned away was an impulsive and stupid move. I've made mistakes in my service; but I was fortunate enough to have taken some good advice when I enlisted in giving up my family name. This way, I still have the opportunity to start from where I left off once my enlistment ends."

The Headmaster contemplated this for a moment, and nodded faintly. "Well, why not get a head start on carrying on?" he offered with a gesture of his hand and a small smile. Jaune quirked a brow.

"I'm not sure that I follow," the younger man admitted.

"When you go out into Vale to carry on with your investigation, you might consider doing so under your given name," Glynda caught onto Ozpin's scheme and elaborated. "Your family's name is, if not particularly well-known, at least more familiar to the kingdom than your Mantlese name. Working as such allows the local police and investigators to save face by having another Valean citizen on the case, as opposed to an Atlesian soldier; it also allows you, personally, to begin cultivating a proper professional reputation now, as opposed to waiting another four years."

Jaune spared a glance to Winter; his mentor's expression was oddly neutral, though she did offer a tiny twitch of her lips that must've been an attempt at reassurance. "It makes good sense," she said quietly with a weak shrug. He frowned at her uncertainty and looked back to Ozpin.

"If I'm not participating as a Specialist, then what authority would I even have to take part in the investigation?"

"Beacon's, of course," Ozpin leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. "You were previously unqualified for admission; however, after a period of independent study abroad, you've returned to us to fulfill a personal request of mine. When the investigation eventually comes to a close, your contributions will of course be formally noted, and - should you choose to take up your old torch once your service has concluded - you will be invited to return to Beacon one day for examinations to determine your qualifications for the title of Huntsman."

It was too good to be true, Jaune admitted behind a vacant and glassy gaze. There was a caveat - some hidden condition or contract or obligation that would leave him subservient to the Headmaster for the rest of his days. Ozpin had someone waiting in the wings to poach him or make him disappear in the midst of the investigation, and he would be trapped into secretive errands to further Beacon's agenda until he was no longer fit to serve.

But what if it was actually his way out? Karma worked both ways, didn't it? He'd ended lives, sure; but he'd also saved scores more, Legionnaires and civilians alike - the odds _had_ to be weighted in favor of his salvation.

It all came back to a conversation with Chief Sergeant Hoess in the perpetual winter of the Ammer Saddle - an eternity in the past, it felt now, but actually only a little more than a year ago.

' _Maybe this really_ is _my boon,'_ he considered timidly. ' _After all… This isn't Atlas.'_

"I think I understand, sir," Jaune finally spoke haltingly, taking a step back in acquiescence.

Had he turned to look at his mentor at that moment, he would have noticed the pain that flashed across Winter's face; all the same, by the time he did look, she had schooled her features into neutrality.

"Excellent," Ozpin clasped his hands together with a nod of satisfaction. "Then you will participate in the investigation as Jaune Arc, and assist in instruction here as Specialist Jonathan Amsel - I suggest you puzzle out some means of effectively distinguishing the two.

"And now that we are all in understanding - I'm sure that you're both quite tired from your journey. The location of your quarters, along with further details on your lodging arrangements, have been forwarded to your Scrolls." Like clockwork, the devices resting at either Specialist's hip flashed twice. "Mister Arc; while I'm sure we can have confidence in Miss Schnee's battlefield medicine, you are more than welcome to pay a visit to our infirmary for a second opinion, and perhaps something to speed along your recovery."

"Thank you, Professor," Jaune hesitated for a breath before adding, "... For everything."

"Identifying and cultivating youthful talent is my vocation," Ozpin waved a hand, "I would be remiss not to offer you another opportunity after the lengths that you've gone to in pursuit of your ambitions."

"The Chief of the Vale Police Department will be here tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred hours," Glynda added sharply. "We would appreciate having one or both of you in attendance while we finalize the details behind our collective collaboration in the investigation."

"We will be present," Winter nodded before turning on her heel and striding towards the elevator. Jaune offered one last tentative smile to the Beacon administrators before mimicking the maneuver and following.

A few moments after the elevator doors had closed, Glynda finally released a breath and looked to Ozpin, eyeing the Headmaster intensely as she contemplated her next words.

"I don't like this," she finally said. "I don't like that you kept this from me, and I don't like the idea of him interacting with students in combat scenarios."

"Just so we're on the same page - for what reason, exactly?"

"He's a headcase," Glynda replied bluntly. "As his combat effectiveness increased over time, so too did the number of referrals from his field officers for him to undergo psychiatric evaluation. Which, of course, never happened, since Atlas sees no reason to spare expensive mental health care on disposable soldiers. Not to mention the fact I have only now been made aware of the potential for a personal identity crisis; there's just no telling what might set him off."

"Assuming that he is significantly affected by post-traumatic stress in the first place, or that he is prone to lash out under such stress," Ozpin pointed out mildly.

"We have no records to predict an outcome either way; which is why he _will_ submit to psychiatric evaluation by a Beacon staff member prior to being permitted to assume his role here."

"You'll have to talk that one past Miss Schnee, first."

"He will submit, or neither of them will be permitted to reside at Beacon, and they will fail their assignment and instead submit to punishment from James."

Ozpin folded his hands in front of his face and met the unyielding stare of his lieutenant. Finally, he closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. "I leave the logistics of the matter to you, then."

"I would expect nothing less," Glynda replied with a half-hearted roll of her eyes.

* * *

"I get the feeling that you're mad at me."

Winter continued to stare unwaveringly at the inside of the elevator doors.

"Actually, is it really me? Or is it Ironwood? Maybe Ozpin," he continued to verbally prod, apparently undaunted by the chilly treatment. "Am I getting warmer?"

"..."

"Is it about the fact that we're sharing a room?"

"Jack," she finally bit out tersely.

"Yes, ma'am?" he replied conversationally.

"Cut that out and explain to me what just happened."

Jaune's brave face finally broke down, and he slumped back against the wall and massaged his throat. "... I panicked," he wheezed. "I saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and I ran straight for it without thinking. I'm sorry."

"This is exactly what the General warned us about, Jaune," Winter sighed, massaging her temples. "Ozpin just… _Propositioned_ you, right in front of me, and you _folded_. Our position here has been compromised, because he now has power over you, and will leverage it at every opportunity until we might as well be reporting to _him_ instead."

"Now hold on!" he protested, "I haven't agreed to _anything!_ He made a recommendation, and I can still decline and stick this whole thing out as I am!"

"Don't be naive," the older woman hissed, snapping around to face him. "He's no doubt already passing this information onto every relevant authority in Beacon and Vale - reneging would only serve to complicate our mission and further jeopardize what little authority we have here, particularly now that they know that we've been _consigned_ here by General Ironwood!"

Jaune stared fearfully in silence as his mentor seethed; she glared back, her teeth bared and her lips twisted into a frustrated snarl. It melted away, eventually, and he felt a twinge as her eyes softened into something far worse: Disappointment.

"I thought we had a deal, Jaune," she said tersely. "But you seem to have conveniently forgotten that in the presence of a better offer. Perhaps there _is_ a reason why my father may like you after all." The panel above the doors chimed, and Winter's walls rose until the stony visage of Specialist Schnee returned in her place. She turned away and stepped out of the elevator at the floor for their quarters, departing without another word.

Jaune remained in place, folded against the back of the car; the door remained open until he reached out and jabbed the button for the ground floor.

The doors slid shut, and the deceptively thin-looking brushed metal of the wall took the full force of a Legionnaire's rage in stride - he felt the Aura gathered about his fist shatter pathetically on impact, and all he earned for his troubles was a harsh ache in his knuckles that would undoubtedly bruise and then fade in the next few hours.

' _When am I finally going to stop fucking up?'_ he pondered with a hefty sigh, straightening up and running a hand over his close-cut black-dyed hair. He raised his Scroll in the other and contemplated the pair of dull cobalt eyes staring back at him.

' _When am I finally going to stop being everyone else's pawn?'_

* * *

 _-To Serve With Honor-_

* * *

 **L2C Jonathan Amsel  
** **Sixteen Months Ago  
** **Firebase Omega - Ammer Saddle - Mantle Interior**

There was something profound about just how cold it was in the Ammer Saddle.

Atlas, with its numerous environmental control modules integrated into the city's base plates and surrounding mountainsides, was pretty chilly most of the time.

The areas beneath the plates, along with every other part of Mantle - from the coasts, to the ruined cities and settlements, to the barren wastes and Grimmlands - was nearly always really cold.

The Ammer Saddle - the northern valley which constituted the largest point of flat overland passage between the naturally-isolated Kingdom of Atlas, and the rest of the "forgotten" lands of the former Kingdom of Mantle - could at the best of times be described as unnaturally, blood-numbingly, _stupidly fucking cold_.

The Saddle was where Legionnaires were consigned to stare into blizzards for months on end, praying each and every day not to find a horde of Polar Ursai and Tundra Beowolves staring back at them.

Under Atlesian law, attempting to enter or exit Atlas over the mountains or through the Ammer Saddle was entirely illegal, and punishable by summary execution carried out by the arresting authority. This meant that the only legal method of entering Atlas was by train or airship, which allowed government and military officials to freely scrutinize and keep tally of each and every person to enter and leave the kingdom, ensuring that undocumented or overstayed visitors could be tracked down by the military's Special Task Force, and subsequently either tried and sentenced, or swiftly deported and blacklisted.

Consequently, the Ammer Saddle was designated at its north end as a free-fire zone - any organic or sentient life identified north of the installation was to be immediately fired upon until definitively and permanently dead. And finally, the fortifications constructed within the Saddle by the Atlas military were to be manned solely by personnel from the Atlas Foreign Legion, with the exception of a pittance of commanding officers from the regular military for supervision.

For the said officers, the posting was tantamount to exile.

For Legionnaires, it was considered a rite of passage - and also one of, if not _the_ single shittiest garrison posting in all of Mantle.

The wind was a reminder of their collective station; because regardless of rank, age, nationality or crimes, every soul in the Ammer Saddle garrison resided in the same frozen hell.

Legionnaire Second Class Jonathan Amsel - also known at different times in his life as Jaune Arc - contemplated all of this from his watch post, rifle clutched in deadened fingers, and asked himself for the eighth time since arriving if taking up smoking would be enough to de-ice his blood and innards.

"Hey, Chief," he muttered into his helmet's proximity comms, "Does smoking help out here at all?"

"Not one bit, kid," Chief Sergeant Hoess drawled back from half a meter to his right, his linear rifle slung over one shoulder as he scanned the blizzard in front of them through an infrared visor. "It's expensive, it kills you faster, and any sniper worth his salt can pick out the cherry at two clicks when you light up."

"Is that why you smoke?"

"Damn straight." The Chief shifted the cigarette in his mouth from one side to the other.

Jaune huffed in annoyance, watching as the air departed from his mouth, froze instantly, and fluttered back onto his lips as tiny frost crystals. He growled silently in annoyance, tried in vain to brush it away with the back of his glove - which was also frosted over - and settled for tugging his ice-stiffened scarf back over the lower half of his face.

It was three months since he had completed the Legion's Basic Military Training, after which he had been assigned to the Sixty-Third Foreign Airmobile Regiment. He'd spent his first two and a half months operating with his new platoon from a Forward Operating Base on the edge of the city of Asteria, one of the few cities of Old Mantle to officially "survive" the Great War and the subsequent shift of power and population from Mantle to Atlas.

Then, after ten weeks of patrolling ruins and being shot at by human and Faunus insurgents, his section had been informed that they would be rotating out to the Ammer Saddle installation - but first, he and and half a dozen other men from Third Section had been sent back to Ramstein, and subjected to a two-week crash course in Combat Engineering, focused specifically on using, defusing, and destroying Atlesian and improvised explosive devices like those encountered almost daily in contested area like the Asteria Restricted Zones.

And so, after spending two weeks playing with high explosives, he and his comrades had finally been sent out to rejoin their section at Firebase Omega. They'd been somewhat surprised to find that their section's Chief Sergeant had been pulled from duty on medical, and been replaced by Jaune's own recruiter, Aaron Hoess.

They had also been introduced to their new daily ritual: Eight hours on, split into two four-hour shifts of patrols and static watch on the fortifications; and the rest of the day off, huddled in circles in whatever free space was available in the barracks or chow hall, freezing their asses off and bitching about the weather, their Atlesian officers, and life in general.

Jaune could honestly say that he would rather be getting shot at in Asteria. He'd been here for three days, and the positions had engaged a whopping _two Beowolves_ \- both of which had been dispatched in a few shots by snipers from the watch at Firebase Alpha. The rest of the time had been spent staring into whiteouts, trudging through blizzards, playing cards and fighting the temptation to pick up a drinking habit - and freezing his balls off.

"Chief Sergeant?" he called over proximity comms.

"Speak, son," the human mountain rumbled back.

"What are we even doing here?"

"Border security," the Chief replied flatly - he'd probably heard the same question a thousand times over his career. "This is the largest geographical point of entry between Old Mantle and the Kingdom of Atlas, which also happens to be unsuitable for conventional methods of transportation due to the lovely weather that we get to enjoy," his gloves crackled as he pulled a hand off of the stock of his rifle to sweep it across the white tempest in front of them.

"Because Atlas doesn't want anything to do with it, they built two bases and a fuck-ton of dragon's teeth, and stuck a thousand Legionnaires out here to keep out the Grimm, as well as other _undesirable personages._ "

' _Like us,'_ Jaune tacked on with a mental snort of derision. "Does it really take this many Legionnaires to stop a few Grimm and trespassers, though?"

"The largest migration of Grimm to ever enter the Ammer Saddle was twenty years ago, during the Conciliar Succession Crisis," the Chief grunted. "The people in Atlas got a bit _unsettled_ when thousands of soldiers took to the city streets and pointed guns at each other because a Councilman didn't want to step down; and before anyone knew it, over two thousand Grimm of all shapes and sizes flooded into the mouth of the Saddle, overran the garrison of a hundred Legionnaires within minutes through sheer momentum, and didn't stop until every Hunter in Atlas, including the entire student body of the Atlas Academy, turned out and stopped the horde within five clicks of the city, taking massive casualties in the process.

"It's how General Ironwood kick-started his military career, actually," he added off-handedly, still staring out into the storm. "Huntsman certification and a fresh officer's commission in hand, he took his forty troopers out of their positions in the city and reinforced the Hunters' defenses. Lost over half of his men, but single-handed slaughtered close to a hundred Grimm; walked away with two promotions, a bunch of medals, and a lot of influence in the political scene as the regular military's posterboy."

"Sounds like a real hero of the people," Jaune muttered absently.

The Chief's mouth beneath the edge of his faceplate twisted into a thin, bitter line. "He won a lot of brownie points with the army's High Command for being one of the first to publicly blame the Legion for the failed defense of the Saddle. He conveniently failed to note that all Legion deployments are ordered by the regular army. And from that day on, Captain James Ironwood had the ears of every career General in the military."

And suddenly, in the increasingly perverse context of Atlas, it all made sense.

' _How am I going to get_ out _of here?'_ the wayward son of Arc thought dejectedly.

He had no hope of reaching his dream in a system as twisted and utterly _wrong_ as this one. The only hope for success in Atlas was being born Atlesian. The bastion of strength and security that General Ironwood flaunted for the rest of Remnant was built on countless bodies, cutthroat politics, and a culture of racism and martyrdom. And he'd gone and volunteered - with a smile on his face - to become yet another faceless martyr.

The Chief must've guessed at the unsettled nature of his silence, because the close comms crackled again. "You a man of faith, son?"

The unanticipated and distinctly personal question startled Jaune from his malaise, and his entire train of thought quickly rerouting to contemplate it. "I was under the impression that we were discouraged from practicing religion," he replied nervously.

"Publicly punishing and humiliating recruits for expressing belief in something besides our Code of Honor goes a little beyond 'discouragement,'" the Chief stated frankly. "Besides, that's not what I asked."

Silence fell for some time as Jaune honestly considered the question. The Chief wasn't a rat - he had even less love for the more blatantly oppressive regulations than most.

Besides which, now that he thought about it, he truly couldn't claim a connection to, or even a regular contemplation of faith. There were a few out-of-the-way temples and sanctuaries back home where different small groups would worship based on religions from the cultural melting pot of Mistral, or the somewhat archaic practices found amongst the nomadic tribes of the Vacuan deserts; but the Kingdom of Vale itself was largely devoid of organized religion.

Instead, it seemed that every family had a set of values tied to a specific vocation. Families that traditionally hunted game or gathered from the great forests of the kingdom practiced reverence and respect for the flora and fauna; likewise, farmers prayed and left small offerings for a variety of different spirits or ancient deities representing bountiful harvest and the wind and rain.

The Arcs were historically generals and heroes, and so upheld a set of moral values akin to chivalry; but his father, adamant that none of his own children would become fighters or soldiers, never imparted much in the way of a warrior's code.

So, if there was anything Jaune could say that he had faith in in his service, it was the Legionnaire's Code of Honor. And even that had become increasingly marred in the face of what reality and Atlas expected him to do to his fellow man.

"I can't really claim to be faithful, Chief," he finally confessed despondently. He really wasn't much better than the mindless cog that he was expected to be.

"You want some advice then, son?"

"Not much better to do out here than listen, Chief."

"Smartass," Hoess chuffed, shaking the legs out one at a time and twisting to lean on the sill of the post's eastern observation port. "Take a look at your life right now."

"Already don't like where this is going," Jaune snorted. Hoess reached across the space and cuffed him across the back of his helmet.

"Can the snark and listen, kid," the older Legionnaire gestured at him with a sharp knife-hand; Jaune flinched instinctively and clamped his mouth shut. "Look at where you're at. Think about all of the reasons that you're here - who and what got you here, and what all is _keeping_ you here. Think about everything that's got you down and dissatisfied with you life."

He still didn't like where this is going.

"And throw all'a that shit away." Jaune's head jerked around to stare at the Chief incredulously from behind his opaque faceplate. "You heard me. Take it and shit-can every bit of it, and think about what you have that keeps you going. Think about the _good_ that you've done and that you've found since you got here, no matter how weak or relative it might seem right now."

He had his squad, he admitted. His section, in fact; not to mention the few friends that he earned and fought for in Basic. The men that he fought and bled with, that killed so he might live, and - he shuddered faintly - vice-versa.

"Now shelve that for a minute, and think about the future. Where you want to be one day when this shit is over and done. Paint the sweetest damned picture that you can possibly imagine - pretty wife, bunch of cute kids, big house in the woods, loved and revered by everybody around you. The whole nine yards."

He still wanted to protect people. He wanted to know that his training and years of service wouldn't be wasted; that he could still stand to atone for his crimes. He wanted to carry on his lineage and be someone worthy of respect and admiration.

"And then put that one up a nice high shelf where you can see it, take the other stuff that you can be proud of down and put it on the _bottom_ shelf, and focus on filling the space in between until it's all put together." Hoess glanced back out into the distance and took a drag of his cigarette, puffing the smoke out into the howling wind.

"I've seen and done some fucked-up shit, kid," the older man spoke candidly. "And I'm gonna do more of it, and you're going to as well, before we get out of here. But everything I've done, I did for others. My family, stuck waiting for me all of these years in a ramshackle house in a Mantle village, living off my salary. My brothers that I've fought with - the ones that I bled and killed with, the ones that are still alive, and the ones who've gone before their time. My boys - all of you kids stuck here with me that I keep fighting for."

He snuffed out the dwindling cigarette on the windowsill, and flicked the remnants outside, placing the hand back on the stock of his rifle and resuming his vigil over the unseen landscape. But he also reached down to his wrist, and disabled the proximity comms; after a moment of hesitation, Jaune did the same.

"Faith is all I've got left, son," the weary old Sergeant spoke into the wind. "But my faith says that, for all of the good I've done, I'm due for my boon someday. I could be dead wrong, and all that's waiting on the other end is a bullet and a shallow grave; but I believe that I'll have my justice, someday, somehow." He turned his head and retracted the faceplate around his eyes to fix Jaune with a resolute emerald stare.

"You've got something good coming your way someday, Jaune; you've just gotta have enough hope left in your soul to keep looking out for it."

* * *

 **End Chapter 1**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **Welcome back,** **everybody.**

 **So, a bit more on what to expect: Multiple unreliable narrators interacting in a perpetual cycle of dramatic tension; multiple factions working towards converging and yet distinctively disparate ends; trauma, drinking, intrigue, infrequent partial nudity, deceit, occasional bouts of profuse casual swearing...** **And original characters. Mostly Mantlese and Atlesian, particularly since we only have a handful of canonical Atlas characters; but a number associated with parties in Vale and abroad, as well. Not too many in prominent roles, but if they appear, they will either be recurring names, or tied to significant events in one or more characters' histories.** **Chief Sergeant Aaron Hoess is of course one of the examples of prominent recurring OCs.**

 **Flashbacks to Jaune's service days in Mantle/Atlas will be sporadic. Several might appear within consecutive chapters, or there could be none for an entire story arc; ultimately, they are a device to be applied where they are most effective.**

 **As a writer, I am either very show, or very tell. In the past, I have primarily abided by a "tell" mentality; this work, however, will lean more towards a "show" approach, placing emphasis on body language and actions, which are in turn interpreted by a given narrator to discern emotions. Sometime's they'll get it right, and sometimes they won't; and other times, I'll kind of take the reigns and walk through the scene from behind the narrator character for the sake of storytelling clarity.**

 **Overall, as a rule of thumb, I would suggest paying attention to how the characters' preconceptions color their interactions, and how these conceptions change over time. Everyone has a reputation, even if by all indications they've done nothing more to earn it than exist in a given space. Such is the nature of stigma - a fact of life associated with interacting between cultures.**

 **Finally, in regards to a release schedule: I truly wish that I could offer promises for consistent and timely updates. But alas, my studies naturally take priority; though my writing is my balance, and comes in a close second.** **This is probably the quickest consecutive release that will occur for the story, and Chapter 2 can probably be expected in the next 1-2 weeks.** **I make a general practice of releasing a chapter only when the one to follow it is mostly complete, to minimize turnaround while still allowing time to process and potentially implement feedback.**

 **What I can promise is that I will not release a chapter until I have done my level-best to ensure the highest possible quality of work, and have run it past at least one other person for basic readability and quality control. I absolutely _abhor_ putting out any work that I can't claim to be content with, at the very least; I also hate going back through and having to edit published chapters for major mistakes, because then alerts are sent out and it becomes confusing and annoying for _everyone_. That being said, if someone points out a glaring flaw, I _will_ fix it as soon as possible, and make note of the revision. Much as I am loathe to accept them, mistakes are a part of learning, and I will own my mistakes and endeavor to learn from them.**

 **I'd like to thank everyone for showing their support and offering feedback on this concept, and I look forward to bringing you more of Jaune's story.**

 **-Knightmare Frame Razgriz**


	3. Chapter 2

_\- To Serve With Honor -_

Winter was seated around a spare end table, sifting through a sizeable sheaf of papers when a knock came at the door of their new Beacon quarters. "Enter," she called without looking up. "Did you stop by the infirmary?"

"The head physician's a real piece of work," Jaune grumbled as he shuffled through the portal, making sure to secure the door behind him. "Former Vale Defense Force officer by the name of Grey, says that Miss Goodwitch brought him on personally about a decade ago." He sounded suspicious towards the end of the statement.

"Glynda is not anti-military just because she and I do not always see eye-to-eye, Jack," the elder Specialist said chidingly, closing the folder in front of her and taking another from the stack to her right on the table. She paused long enough to pull out her Scroll and note the doctor's name for a later check. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"Well, there's no risk of infection, thanks to the first aid," he sighed, taking a seat across from her at the small table and automatically reaching over to take one of the folders that she had already reviewed. "He seemed a bit confused that it isn't healing faster, but chalked it up to Taurus's weapon."

"I would not put it past an experienced terrorist like Adam Taurus to coat his weapons with poison or anticoagulant," she agreed with a distracted nod. "It's part of the reason why I was so insistent on treating you immediately."

"I'm sorry for doubting you, and I appreciate your concern," Jaune said diplomatically. Winter closed the folder that she had just started on and looked up with a blank stare, only to find him staring back with a stricken look plastered across his features, his bright cobalt eyes contrite and his lips pressed into a thin, uncertain line.

She cursed internally; it just wasn't fair that, even with the scarring, he still had the 'kicked puppy' look down pat.

"Did he prescribe anything?" she persisted.

"No," the look disappeared when he replied quickly. Winter sighed in equal parts relief and irritation when he averted his gaze.

"Jaune, we both know that it will be easier for you to maintain a cover if you get rid of, or at least diminish your scars."

"Medical procedures leave a paper trail," he shot back stubbornly. "And besides, even if the ones on my temple and throat go away, the dents on my jaw go down to the bone and pre-date my Aura - my body already considers them to be part of my natural state."

"And I suppose that, after having Aura for eight months, you're now an expert on interactions between human physiology and Aura?"

"Winter, _please_ just drop it," Jaune finally pleaded. "I'll learn how to cover them up myself, or I'll come up with some way to play it off."

"They are physical evidence that tie 'you' back to your 'cover,' and therefore jeopardize your own desire to maintain anonymity!" Winter pressed incredulously. "And besides that - why would you willfully preserve evidence of your own failures?"

" _Because I don't want to forget!_ " he shot back hoarsely. "Because the minute that I forget a single part of it, it all means _nothing_. Because we're the only ones who'll ever remember - because _I'm_ the only one. And they all deserve better than that."

He was raving again. His pupils were quivering visibly as he stared at a target a thousand meters away through time and space, and the fingers of his right hand curled and uncurled loosely, wrapping around an invisible pistol grip and a trigger. Clench, breathe, squeeze - release.

He was back in Asteria again, and she hated it.

* * *

 _Every failure was her failure._

 _She saw the scar on Weiss's eye over her own when she looked in the mirror sometimes._

 _When she fell asleep most nights, she was in that tiny concrete basement again, staring at Jack tied to that chair, watching as the Fang beat him over and over again, threw a cloth over his face and soaked it in a stream of ice water, pressed makeshift electrodes to his bare chest and cranked the voltage until the ends of what was left of his hair began to smoke._

 _Jack Amsel was Winter Schnee's personal scar - the walking personification of everything wrong with the Atlas military, and a constant reminder of her every failure in its service, but by no fault of his own - and she hated him._

 _Jaune Arc, on the other hand, was her complex. A lost soul with a heart of gold, taken from the comfort of a home and family by a pure emotional impulse to make a mark - to do good by the world, and to break away from the pages of annals already written to become his own tale of ascension and virtue._

 _He was the brother that her family could never give her - the paramour that she could never have. Her other half in every possible respect. And her redemption._

 _By divine intervention, he had been placed before her not once, not twice, but thrice. The first time, she had been shown his basest state - but she had stupidly walked away, unwilling to degrade herself by daring to draw the lines and connect the dots._

 _The second was her golden opportunity. He had been placed before her in his prime - ever so faintly tarnished by time and tragedy through every fault of her own, but ultimately identifiable now as the diamond hewn by nature and fate for her to cut and shape into perfection._

 _But again, the fool she was, she had walked away. Disbelieving of the gem, too fearful of breaking the mortal standard to seize him and fulfill their shared purpose. And he had been made to pay for her irresolution by the time of their third meeting._

 _But, even though she had finally grasped him, Fate now conspired to punish her ignorance and take him from her. Professor Ozpin; General Ironwood; even her own beloved sister Weiss, and that accursed terrorist, Adam Taurus. They had all been used as vessels, weapons to remove him from her unworthy presence._

 _Winter Schnee was not an inherently selfish person. But Jaune Arc was_ her _purpose. And if Fate wanted him back, it would damn well need to go through her first._

* * *

"Jaune," she called softly, reaching across the table and grasping his off hand with both of her own. "Jaune, listen to my voice."

"Winter," he mumbled weakly, his eyes still fixed on an indeterminate point in the distance. "Winter, I don't, I-I can't-"

He was confused. The visions in his mind didn't mesh with the sounds, or smells, or sensations being received by the rest of his body. The dissonance was distressing, and no doubt made frightening by whatever hazy, chaotic landscape was swimming through his head.

"Jaune, if you believe that you can work around your scars, then I believe you; and I have faith that you will come up with a sustainable solution," Winter's tone hardened to its normal pitch, offering a corporeal anchor for his conscious mind to latch onto. "But right now, I need you to be back here with me. We have work to do."

An objective. He was a soldier - a Legionnaire. Pain was a temporary condition to be accepted and mastered. But to press forward, he needed to know his mission. To recognize the goal beyond the obstacles - his motivation to adapt and overcome.

His breathing slowed minutely, and Winter kept a firm hold of his hand, curling her fingers around the base of his thumb and wrist with one hand, and clasping the other over his knuckles, tugging the appendage gently to the tabletop until she was resting her elbows on the surface and holding it aloft between them.

She kept her eyes fixed on his own cloudy cobalt orbs, carefully examining their depths as his irises contracted to their normal size, until he finally returned her gaze and swallowed dryly.

"Winter, I'm so sorry," he whispered, shamefaced.

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"That's a lie, and we both know it." Yes, they both certainly did. "Winter, I _betrayed_ you. I was… I was emotional from coming home, and part of me was reaching, _grasping_ for any way to try and make things _right_ with Dad…" He let out a bark of self-deprecating laughter. "I guess I didn't even remember that he despises Ozpin, too, almost as much as he hates Atlas…"

Ah. So he was stuck on the failed homecoming from two days ago. ' _Alexander Arc,'_ she mentally sneered in distaste, reminded on some base level of her own parentage. ' _And yet my own father could at least spare the courtesy_ _of not degrading everything that we stand for in a single breath.'_

Her reverie ended when Jaune shook his head sharply. "No, I'm just making excuses for myself again… I was weak, and I did everything wrong that I possibly could in that meeting. I compromised our position to Ozpin, and… and I spat on your generosity, everything that you've given up and done for me in this last year, right there in front of him."

Winter bit lightly on the inside corner of her lower lip, recognizing the truth in his words even as she glanced down in embarrassment; recalling her own sharp words to him in the elevator. "Jaune, I was much harsher than I had any right to be. I was irate, both with General Ironwood's deception and Ozpin's own machinations, and I took it out on you unjustly-"

" _No_ ," he cut her off sternly, "You had every right to be mad at me - still have every right, in fact. You were absolutely right: We have our arrangement, the entire basis of our partnership, and I discarded that in a heartbeat for pretty words from a face that I can't even claim to call familiar." He paused and glanced aside, working his jaw contemplatively, before looking back with steel in his gaze. "I gave you my word - and an Arc doesn't go back on his word anymore than a Legionnaire discards his honor when it is convenient."

She wanted nothing more than to snap at him - at how he was hiding behind his family's superficial values because he was still afraid to fully commit, because he still somehow thought that Ozpin's offer could be better than her own.

Another part of her recognized that, just maybe it _was_ a better offer. If she truly wanted the best for Jaune… Then maybe the best would be to encourage him to fully accept what Ozpin was proposing.

Either way, Winter ultimately recognized that it was too soon to contemplate forgiveness, because she was still quite thoroughly emotional about the situation.

"We can discuss this later," she sighed, unconsciously reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. She kept her bangs hanging over her eye, and focused down on the papers, even as her instincts screamed for her to look up and meet his pleading gaze, to keep talking and try to salvage some sense of closure from this mess. "These are the VPD's abridged case files from every crime that's suspected to be connected to the Dust robberies. One of our objectives during the meeting with the Police Chief tomorrow will be to negotiate for access to the full files, as part of the primary goal of securing administrative and field access to the department's operations for the duration of our stay."

She continued to read silently, waiting until Jaune visibly slumped in her peripheral vision and exhaled sharply in exhaustion and frustration.

"Alright," he finally grunted in acquiescence. "How useful are these 'abridged' files for our work?"

"Not at all, so far as I've been able to discern," she frowned, closing the file and flicking open the next. "I've reviewed over three dozen of them by now, and none have been any more detailed than what you might find in the Vale Daily News police blotter - which is probably what they are for, come to think of it."

"So we're going into negotiations with the local police set on stonewalling us from square one." Jaune leaned forward on his arm and massaged his brow. "It's like joint exercises with the Special Task Force all over again."

"Vale isn't looking for a reason to arrest you for treason or sedition," Winter pointed out helpfully.

"We don't know how much Ozpin has told them yet," he rebutted. "For all we know, I might walk into the room and have the Chief of Police after my head for basically forfeiting my citizenship to serve in a foreign military."

She twitched at that; the thought honestly hadn't occurred to her previously. Then again, she was _slightly_ biased, on account of knowing and believing his declared motives behind his actions. "If Ozpin was even remotely honest about his intent of utilizing your services, then it would go against his own interests to expose you to the authorities."

"So we'll _all_ be playing this close to the vest, then. Great. Would make screwing up that much worse for everyone…"

"Enough of that," Winter snapped. "From this point on until dictated otherwise, we are on duty in foreign and not wholly friendly territory. Our mission has received additional parameters, but otherwise remains the same as before. Failure is no more an option than it has ever been; and our personal issues and grievances can be dealt with on our own time. Is that clear?"

Jaune Arc closed his eyes and bit his tongue; and then suddenly, Winter was once again alone in a room with Jonathan Amsel.

"Crystal, ma'am," he replied neutrally, taking the remainder of the stack that she had reviewed and starting on the first.

The pair worked in professional silence for several hours afterwards. He would offer commentary or ask a question about a piece of information, and she would reply in as few words as possible, too scared to risk a conversation for fear of relapsing into the previous drama, lying to herself that the current tension was preferable.

By the time they finished sorting through the mountain of files and papers, the sun had long since fallen below the crest of the airship docks and cliff face. Winter moved the stack over to an end table beside the door, and proceeded into the bathroom to change into her nightgown; by the time she came out, Jaune had already replaced his uniform with a t-shirt and sweatpants, and had parted the comforter on one of the twin beds to lie on top of the sheets, one leg crossed over the other and his arms folded behind his head and pillow.

"You wanna work out first thing tomorrow?" he muttered to the ceiling as she moved over to the adjacent bed.

"Set it for oh-five-thirty," she muttered back, petulantly dodging the undesirable question in favor of the unspoken one. "Knowing Glynda, there will be coffee and tea brewing in the staff lounge by oh-six hundred."

He grunted in acknowledgement, tapping a button on the Scroll held behind his head and reaching out to set it on the nightstand between them. Their alarm propped against the base of the lamp, he flicked the switch and killed the light. "Night, Winter."

"Goodnight, Jaune."

"... I'm sorry."

Her hair loosened from its signature bun and spread across her pillow and face, she heaved one final sigh of profound exhaustion, and whispered back.

"I know."

* * *

The first light of dawn was signalled by an electronic klaxon that Winter very nearly reached out and stabbed; fortunately, the offensive noise was quickly silenced by Jaune as he swung out of his bed and snatched his Scroll away from her blind punches.

Winter Schnee was not a morning person. Previously, this had not often been a problem, because as a Specialist, she essentially wrote her own schedule apart from scheduled meetings and missions.

Then, of course, she just _had_ to choose a protégé who actually abided by the military's "rise before first light" mentality.

She blearily managed to catch a bundle of clothes before it smacked her in the face. "On the bounce, Specialist," said subordinate's impossibly lively and amused voice chirped from the other side of the bundle, "Early birds and all that."

"Stow that lip, Corporal," she grumbled back, setting the clothes onto the bed beside her in time to watch Jaune strip off his shirt and replace it with a dark grey sweatshirt. She looked down at the lump of clothes and noted a similar sweatshirt, sweatpants, and athletic undergarments.

Once he finished lacing up his running shoes, Jaune moved to the doorway and glanced back. "I'll mark the route and meet you by the fountain on the east side," he said patiently. She nodded, and he slipped out of the room quickly.

As she took her time changing out of her nightclothes, Winter contemplated the morning's later meeting. To her knowledge, neither she nor Jaune had any means of putting the proposed double-identity ruse into action so soon after its conception; which meant that they would have to risk presenting the VPD with two Specialists from square one, and trusting Ozpin to offer the excuse that "Jaune Arc" had not yet arrived in Vale. It was necessary, but it presented a risk for the future by increasing the odds that Vale's law enforcement would connect the dots between Jaune and Jack from the get-go.

She was pulling the sweatshirt over her head when a knock came from the door, causing her to start and struggle briefly with the article. Disentangling herself and ensuring that she was fully clothed, Winter strode across the small space and lightly tapped the electronic lock pad on the wall, causing the portal to retreat into the frame, and admitting a characteristically sharp and aggravatingly wakeful Glynda Goodwitch with a box tucked under one arm.

"I noticed Mister Arc warming up in the courtyard and figured that you might be up and about," the Deputy Headmistress explained flatly. She extricated the container and presented it to Winter's bleary gaze; the Specialist blinked and accepted it slowly, immediately popping the lid of the box open slightly and peering inside.

A mess of golden-blonde strands was nested inside. She let the lid fall and stared dryly at Glynda.

"You just so happened to have a wig on hand that matches Jaune's natural hair color and cut?" she drawled.

"We had a similar one on hand that was easily modified by our quartermaster on request," Glynda replied shamelessly. "You'll also find a pair of colored contact lenses in the bottom that are slightly offset from Mister Arc's natural eye color; I would advise that he start wearing them regularly while he is serving at Beacon."

"I'm sure that General Ironwood will appreciate all of the effort that you and the Headmaster have put into subverting the _one_ foreign soldier that he has seen fit to place even the slightest bit of faith in after years of cultural tension," Winter snarked, setting the box on the table beside the door and moving back to her bed to lace up her athletic shoes.

"Professor Ozpin is adapting to the situation at hand to ensure the smoothest possible progression through this investigation, for Atlas and Vale both," the administrator shot back. "Mister Arc's presence was neither planned for or predicted; and your baseless accusations only serve to lend further credence to long-standing concerns regarding the raving paranoia with which James manages his operations."

" _General Ironwood_ ," Winter growled faintly, yanking at her laces and tugging them into a thorough knot as she spoke, "Can hardly be faulted for his distrust, when Professor Ozpin is the one running his institution - as well as attempting to run many others - by flagrantly manipulating key individuals through espionage, coercion, and _blackmail_."

"Now see here-!"

Glynda's indignation was cut short as both hers and Winter's Scrolls chimed loudly in unison; Winter leaned sideways across the length of her bed to retrieve her device, and flicked it open confusedly to read the message. The sender was her contact from the Vale Police Department.

 **Interrupted robbery has resulted in hostage situation - Chief of Police has requested Atlas liaisons' immediate presence on-site.**

"Send for Mister Arc; I'll have a Bullhead prepped for your immediate departure at Pad Three," Glynda bit out, tapping away at her Scroll and spinning on her heel to leave.

"Wait!" The Deputy Headmistress froze and glanced impatiently back to the Specialist. "If we are requested to assist in this situation, then Jaune would be more useful responding as he is than in disguise," Winter quickly explained. Glynda pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut as she contemplated it; she finally nodded in acceptance.

"He has combat armor, correct? Make sure that he has a helmet, and we should be able to minimize our risk provided that he remains in full uniform." Winter nodded quickly, already stripping back out of her workout clothes to don her regular uniform. Glynda departed, and once the door had sealed, Winter snatched up her Scroll and hit speed-dial.

Jaune picked after two rings. " _Don't tell me you got cold feet-"_

"Get to the Skyhawk and get into your combat gear, including your helmet," Winter snapped, "There's a hostage situation in Vale that we will be responding to. Gear up, take a weapon, and rendezvous at Pad Three in five minutes."

The line was silent for a moment as he processed her words, before he made a short noise of affirmation, and the call ended.

* * *

Winter was jogging quickly down Beacon's main avenue five minutes later in her regular uniform, her saber rattling at her hip as she fought to run and tie her hair back at the same time.

The bulbous form of a Bullhead waited on the pad, its VTOL engines idling and tilted back to allow the craft to rest on the ground. Next to the open hatch, Glynda Goodwitch stood and continued to tap away at her Scroll, expanded into its usual tablet size and nestled into the crook of her arm.

"The standoff is currently taking place in the south-central Commercial District, at a store called _From Dust Till Dawn_ ," Glynda called over the loud hum of the aircraft, "VPD SWAT is on site, along with every available officer from the three nearest precincts."

"Why would they even want us at the scene, then?" Winter asked as she closed the distance, finally succeeding in tucking the final strands of loose hair through her tie and shaking her head to even it.

"Reports have indicated the presence of at least a small number of perpetrators with active Aura signatures." The deputy frowned deeply. "The police department doesn't keep any Hunters on regular retainer, and the situation arose too suddenly to put out a standard contract for assistance through Beacon. I would go myself, but the commanding officer at the scene determined that my presence has too much potential to cause a sudden and irreversible escalation. Considering the opposition, I can't help but question why he would instead ask for you."

"Who are the culprits?!" Winter demanded impatiently.

" **The White Fang,"** a modulated voice answered from behind her; the Specialist narrowly restrained herself from jumping out of her skin, and slowly turned to face the final arrival.

The man stood tall and cut an imposing figure, encased from head to toe in grey combat fatigues, black steel-capped boots, and heavy-looking grey body armor trimmed with thin maroon lines over top of a tight black bodysuit. Grey greaves and gauntlets wrapped around his legs and forearms, and maroon gloves with black trim and molded knuckle caps were wrapped around the pistol grip and forestock of a heavy-looking magazine-fed shotgun. Pouches and bandoleers of equipment and munitions were mounted around his vest, and a pistol and knife were secured to to either hip.

The deep, modulated voice had emerged from unseen speakers in a gunmetal grey helmet, hidden behind a flat full-face visor. The helm encased his entire head, and the collar on his body armor rose completely around his neck, revealing absolutely no skin from head to toe.

Winter repressed a shudder.

"Put your visor up, _please_ ," she sighed. The figure's hand rose to the side of his head, and the faceplate retracted completely into the crown of the helmet. Jaune blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Mister Arc is correct," Glynda responded, swiftly wiping her own unease from her features as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a finger. "During the initial robbery, the would-be thieves were disguised with heavy coats and full-face masks; however, once first contact was made with authorities and the standoff began, they discarded these measures and replaced them with the White Fang's standard ballistic armor and Grimm masks."

"Why on Remnant would the White Fang be robbing a Dust shop in the middle of Vale at first light?" Winter wondered aloud.

"That's what you're here to find out," Glynda stated flatly. "They're awaiting your arrival at the mobile operations center, located one block from the scene; the pilot has instructions to drop you there. I would advise that you get moving before anything else has a chance to go wrong." The administrator nodded to both Specialists, and moved away from the Bullhead, back towards the academy.

Jaune grasped the crew door and pulled himself up into the dropship's main compartment. "Terrorists aren't gonna sort themselves," he grunted, dropping into the bucket seat closest to the door and holding a hand out to Winter.

She accepted the hand and pulled herself up into the aircraft; once she was seated opposite him, Jaune reached back and banged his fist twice on the closed door between the compartment and the cockpit. The Bullhead's engines roared into life, and both Specialists were pressed into their seats briefly as the craft shot into the air and took off towards the city.

The Legionnaire yanked the exterior door shut, cutting the noise and momentarily plunging the compartment into darkness before automatic lights flickered on, casting the a dim red glow across the interior and its occupants.

* * *

The two sat in silence like that for awhile; Winter wanted to say something reassuring, but she couldn't find the words. She watched as Jaune tilted his head back slightly to rest against the bulkhead, and stared at the encased wiring running across the ceiling.

Eventually, the young man exhaled deeply and tapped his fingers idly against the grip of his weapon.

"I used to get airsick, you know," he said suddenly. "Couldn't set foot on an airship without my stomach trying to come out through my mouth."

"So what changed?" Winter humored him.

"Jump School," he chuckled. "On my first jump, the Skyhawk's crew chief threatened to turn me inside out if I puked in his aircraft. Then when it was time to jump, I hesitated; his boot met my ass, and I went tumbling head over heels out of the ramp into a ten-thousand-meter free-fall."

"That must have been terrifying."

"It was for about five seconds," he admitted. "But then I managed to get myself straightened out and figure up from down… And it felt like I was at home." He laughed at her puzzled stare. "It was completely unbelievable. I was dropping like a rock from ten thousand meters high with nothing but a Grav Rig and an emergency 'chute, but I'd never felt so _free_. Mantle was underneath me, nothing but a bunch of white and grey; and the sky above me was just so _amazingly_ blue.

"All around me, the rest of my training squad was flailing around or trying to do flips and tricks, and all I could do was laugh like a complete lunatic and float around like it was my natural state."

Jaune smiled softly at her, and she couldn't help but return it as his tired blue eyes glowed warmly in the light while he reminisced. "The instructors had told us to decelerate at a thousand meters, but I was just having too much fun; by the time I came to my senses, I was approaching five hundred at near-terminal velocity. So, I just… Did what came naturally; I went spread-eagle and hit my gear, and when I finally managed to slow down, I hit snow about half a second later - and I had three Chief Sergeants on me like _that,_ all shouting at me and demanding to know what the hell I was thinking. And I just grinned at 'em, and asked, 'When can I go again?' And they all stopped and stared at me, and two of them just walked away."

He grinned broadly. "The last guy still chewed me out, but I'm pretty sure they still think I'm totally crazy, to this day; especially when I came back a few months later for the Three-Dimensional Maneuver Warfare school to learn how to use the Grav Rig from the ground."

"And now you just… Don't get airsick anymore?" Winter asked incredulously.

"I still get a bit queasy every now and again," he admitted with a shrug, "But when I do, I just think about falling, and I feel better." The conversation ended as the intercom crackled.

" **Thirty seconds from target; get ready to drop,"** the pilot announced. Jaune's mouth fell into a grim line, and one hand checked that the his shotgun was clipped to his armor.

"... Do you think that we'll end up fighting?" he asked after a moment of hesitation.

Winter shook her head confidently. "This is Vale; the White Fang here are cowardly and undisciplined compared to the Zealots in Mantle. Either the robbers will try to run, and the VPD will catch them in the process; or SWAT will move in and neutralize the threat before anything more can come of the situation. We're here symbolically, as the last resort."

Mollified by her conviction, Jaune nodded faintly; his faceplate slid back into place, and he reached out and tugged the exterior door open.

* * *

 **End Chapter 2**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **I know, the buildup is slow and chocked full of enough drama to choke a horse. But this first few chapters constitute the building blocks upon which future character interactions will be based, and are thus necessary components of the long game.**

 **In a similar vein, a few of you have expressed some disdain or disinterest in the premise associated with the flashback in the last chapter; and to that I say, it's your choice - but it's also your loss. Jaune will have some moments over time where he verbally shares stories of his service in Mantle; however, these occasions will be few and far between. The flashbacks are devices for elucidating on the origins of some of the changes that led Jaune to be in the position that he is in the present timeline; they also serve as world-building for the geo-political dynamics of my Atlas and Mantle.**

 **Ultimately, I of course have no control over whether you read or skip these segments. Just know that should you choose to avoid them, then you might be confused by some of Jaune's thoughts and actions later on in the story - and you'll also be missing key pieces of information that will become relevant once certain Atlas sub-plots arrive at the forefront of the story.**

 **The next chapter, which will come within a week of this one, will serve as the introductory action for the story and the long-term conflict in Vale; by the end, we'll also get our first glimpse of at least one new recurring character and perspective.**

 **See you in the next one.**

 **-Knightmare Frame Razgriz**


	4. Chapter 3

_\- To Serve With Honor -_

The shingled and flat rooftops of Vale's Commercial District flashed by beneath them, and Jaune breathed deeply; he frowned as the simple noise came out of his external comms as a harsh rasp.

Then the aircraft started to slow, and soon came to a hover; the street below was choked with white and black police cruisers, with dozens of officers in blue scattered between them, hunched low behind the cars and aiming their sidearms towards a storefront at the end of the street.

The three-way junction that the store resided on was completely blocked off by a mix of cruisers and vans, and at the store's main entrance, three figures in hooded black bodysuits and white vest-like armor held Dust carbines at the ready, each of their faces hidden behind stylized white and red masks that resembled the bone facial plates of the creatures of Grimm.

Spotting a hole clearing in the crowd of officers beneath the hovering Bullhead, Winter glanced over and nodded to Jaune; then, she stepped out the open air, and allowed gravity to take over.

Jaune watched her fall with distant wonder. Aura was a hell of a drug; it allowed Huntsmen and Huntresses to take hits from speeding vehicles like a gentle shove, shake off stabs and slashes like grazes from fingernails, and stick a landing from forty meters straight up like they had skipped a step coming down the stairs.

Winter landed gracefully amidst the crowd, crouching slightly and balancing herself by holding her arms out from her sides; then, she blew a stray hair from her vision, stepped aside, and looked back up to the Bullhead.

Jaune reached back and banged twice on the cockpit door, and then departed with aircraft with a short hop.

Then his mind immediately drew a blank on how to channel Aura to cushion a landing.

' _... Crap.'_

* * *

' _... Shit.'_

The second he jumped into the open air, Winter remembered that they hadn't actually practiced landing strategies in well over six months, and bit out the short curse in her mind.

He was in no real danger; Jaune had enough conditioning and experience under his belt to come out of a drop from that height unscathed, Aura or no. That said, there was something to be said for first impressions, and hitting the asphalt and tumbling in a heap of armored limbs would hardly constitute a dignified entrance for a supposed Airborne Legionnaire.

Jaune must have recognize the dilemma as well, because a moment later, his landing was heralded by a thunderous boom.

The pavement beneath his boots bowed, and a web of cracks spidered outwards from the point; his knees bent slightly, but he otherwise remained unmoved, face hidden behind the blank visor, shotgun held loosely across his chest as a cloud of dust radiated up and away from his form.

The air stilled following the disturbance, as everyone within range turned or glanced to the source; only to start or shuffle apprehensively away from the impassive monolith that had appeared in their midst.

The stillness broke as the Bullhead overhead moved away, and Winter moved to Jaune's side and glanced around at the bewildered police officers. Jaune himself craned his neck and looked around the area deliberately, cataloguing details such as weapons, armor, and the few prominent rank insignia scattered throughout the morass of first responders. People shied away from his unseen gaze as he did so, and he gave a resigned sigh that probably didn't do anything to help his case.

Winter tapped his shoulder, and pointed towards a large black semi trailer down the street; he nodded in agreement, and his lips twitched in wry amusement as officers pushed each other out of his path when he strode forward through the crowd. He didn't need to look back to know that Winter was trailing him at a sedate and dignified gait.

Outside of the rear of the trailer in question, three people were gathered around a card table, surveying a row of Scroll tablets which appeared to be displaying separate angles of the storefront. One of them slapped the side of the trailer in frustration as a short squawk of apology came over the radio clipped to his uniform jacket, and he ran a hand over his thinning brown hair in frustration.

"I'm putting the owner of his heap under a damned _microscope_ after this is over," the harried looking man swore, turning from his fellows with his hands clasped around the back of his neck. "There is _zero_ lawful justification for having reinforced and tinted storefront windows that are impervious to high-powered thermal scanning!"

The second member of the group was a woman, swathed in a worn and faded, but still eye-catching crimson leather trench coat. Her sly tawny gaze was veiled beneath a matching crimson wide-brimmed fedora with a black satin band around the base, which sat atop a full head of voluminous auburn hair. She raised a hand to her mouth and tittered softly at her colleague's frustration. "I don't know about that. Torchwick and his boys have become fairly innovative with their scouting techniques; I wouldn't be surprised if they have a van parked a few blocks over right now, loaded with equipment and cursing flunkies that are having the same problems as we are."

"Carmen, please stop antagonizing Paul with the problems that we _could_ have, and focus on the ones that we already _do_ have," the final man, an older gentlemen with a large head, devoid of any hair to speak of, sighed as he adjusted his forest-green tie. The silken ball at his throat was already cinched beyond recognition of any particular style of knot; most of the tie was tucked between his white button-front shirt and his brown tweed waistcoat, and contrasted against his rumpled blue jeans and tawny leather derby shoes. A leather pistol belt sagged off of one side of his hip under the weight of a black-barreled army-style revolver with worn wooden grips.

Winter chose that moment to make their presence known, coming to a stop alongside of the trailer and calling out. "Chief Reagan!"

The Chief of the Vale Police Department - the bald gentleman - turned at the waist, and his face seemed to age a further ten years, the line of his mouth faller deeper into despair at the sight of the Specialist and her companion. "Speaking of problems," he muttered to himself, before straightening and turning completely to greet the pair as they joined the gathering at the table. "Specialist Schnee - so glad that you could join us."

"We're trying to _negotiate_ with these animals for the first time in years, and you invited a Schnee and an _attack dog_ ," the officer drawled accusingly. Carmen, the lady in red, reached over and swiftly cuffed him across the back of the head; he took the blow with a wince, but remained unapologetically irate.

"Play nice, Paul," the woman chided as her eyes passed straight over Winter and latched onto Jaune, sweeping up and down his form with an unreadable intent that almost made the young man fidget. "Though, I do agree somewhat with my colleague's sentiment in wondering how exactly this situation calls for the presence of one of Atlas's worst-kept secrets."

Winter scowled faintly at the older woman, while Jaune's helmet tilted to the side in silent puzzlement; though Carmen giggled at the gesture, the other two men looked on in quiet discomfort at the featureless headgear.

"You requested the Atlas investigators," Winter said, gesturing to herself and Jaune. "We are here."

"And I was under the impression that _one_ of you was being replaced by Ozpin's handpicked representative," Reagan rebutted wryly.

"I can leave, if you would prefer," the elder Specialist deadpanned. Paul guffawed, Carmen choked back an unflattering snort, and Chief Reagan bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Now you're just being difficult, Winter," the Valean senior officer grimaced.

"It is not as if you honestly have a 'best' option in this matter. From what Ozpin has already told us, his representative is an untrained vagabond of barely two years older than my own sister. Meanwhile, as the Commander has so astutely observed, you have at your disposal myself, the eldest daughter of the White Fang's favorite target," she waved a hand to herself, before pointing to Jaune, "And a highly-trained, fully-equipped, and experienced _former_ Legionnaire who can get through all three of the terrorists down the street before any of the ones inside could recognize that he was amongst them."

Jaune bit down harshly on his tongue to restrain himself from correcting his superior, knowing that it wouldn't help either of their cases.

"We all know that there's no such creature as a _former_ Legionnaire, Miss Schnee," Carmen recited dutifully. "There are only Legionnaires, dead Legionnaires, and non-Legionnaires."

' _Thank you.'_

"Be that as it may," Winter pressed on valiantly, "Ozpin's representative has yet to arrive, and because my own involvement in this scenario is… _Ill-advised_ , Specialist Amsel is technically the most useful of the two of us in the current situation."

" **I promise not to blow anything up,** " Jaune chirped helpfully, and the Commander flinched at the sudden introduction of synthesized baritone. Winter imitated Chief Reagan's previous gesture.

"So it speaks," Paul muttered.

"And is there reason as to why you can't speak to us like a normal human being?" Reagan inquired pointedly.

"Jack was injured recently, in an encounter with a White Fang agent when we stopped to investigate an incident en route to Vale," Winter explained. "Several of the wounds on his face and neck are still sensitive, and one caused short-term damage to his vocal cords; his helmet minimizes the wounds' exposure to open air, while the internal comms system allows him to continue to communicate with minimal strain."

" **My pretty face isn't so pretty right now, and I have a bit of a sore throat,** " Jaune summarized aptly; the three Valeans snorted, and Winter quashed a long-suffering sigh, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye instead.

Further inquiry was halted before it could begin when the sea of officers around them stirred suddenly, and the radio at Paul's chest squawked again.

" _ **Shots fired inside of the store - I say again, shots fired in the store."**_

Paul fumbled with the clasp on the device, and pulled the receiver closer to his face. "Are there any signs of casualties?!" the Commander barked.

" _ **No telling, sir. Snipers have a line through the front door, but no eyes on the hostages - wait, the White Fang have just closed the front door. We're now completely blind."**_

"We're coming up on two hours," Carmen gestured to a digital timer visible inside of the command trailer, red digital numbers flickering rapidly as the time ticked upwards. "They've already chased off the negotiator, and now the ones inside are becoming desperate and twitchy. We're about to hit the point of no return."

Reagan ran both hands over his head and rested them on the back of his neck, his square jaw set tightly as he stared up into the gold and red of the morning sky. "I can't send you in, Winter," he mumbled apologetically.

"Then send Jack," Winter pressed. "I've trained him for situations like this, and his instincts are exemplary. If it comes to a fight, he _will_ get the hostages out alive."

The older man turned and stared at Jaune, his eyes boring straight through the blank faceplate into his soul. They both drew up to their full heights - Jaune standing level only by merit of his boots - and moved to stand face-to-face.

"This isn't Mantle, son," Reagan stated gravely, "This isn't your war."

" **All I've ever wanted to do since I learned how to fight was to protect people, sir,** " Jaune replied. " **It means everything to me when I actually get to do that. You know the Legion, sir - the Mission above all else. Those people in there are my mission. Give me the go.** "

Reagan continued staring. "I didn't ask James for a fanatic with a trigger finger, I asked him for a _thinker_. This isn't a soldier's game, boy; collateral damage has a meaning beyond an after-action report, and _every_ death, regardless of whose it is, is a bad thing. Can you look me in the eye and tell me that, when faced with the choice between the easy route of pulling a trigger, and the hard choice of _not_ , that you can abstain?"

Winter gaped at the Chief's gall, and she could tell from the slight quiver in Jaune's hands that he wasn't going to abide it.

" **There is nothing** _ **easy**_ **about 'pulling a trigger,'** _ **sir,**_ " Jaune hissed, and the words out with an otherworldly treble. Paul flinched, but Reagan remained unperturbed. " **You might think that I'm a remorseless, hard-charging grunt that gets some kind of** _ **thrill**_ **from killing living beings. You think less of me because my appearance fits the bill; but I'll tell you that there are others, some who even wear this same uniform, that look down on me because I** _ **don't**_ **fit that profile.**

" **Believe it or not, Chief Reagan, I'm** _ **tired**_ **of killing people just because someone else behind a desk doesn't like them or a thousand of their closest 'conspirators.'"** Jaune shifted his head slightly to look towards Winter. " **I've been given the power, and the opportunity to choose my own battles, and to finally back my words with action. And I'm going to use that power, here and now, to end this and get those people out safely.** "

He drew himself up and stepped forward until he was chest-to-chest-plate with the Chief of Police. " **I am not an instrument of mindless violence. I am a Specialist, a trained soldier, and a human being; and right now, in the absence of Specialist Schnee or Glynda Goodwitch herself, I am your best asset.** _ **Let me go**_ **."**

Winter held her breath. Despite wearing the face of a soldier, his were not the words of a trooper requesting to be aimed towards a battle and let slip. Jonathan Amsel was not the man wearing the uniform; it was Jaune Arc, awaiting the chance to take the first steps back into his life.

Reagan glanced over either shoulder to his companions. Paul looked less than enthusiastic, but otherwise offered no word of dissent; while Carmen smiled slyly back from beneath the brim of her crimson fedora, and nodded. The Chief looked back to Jaune, closed his eyes, and bobbed his head once.

"Armory van is that big ugly grey thing behind me," he jabbed a thumb back towards an armored car a hundred meters away, "Get them to issue you stun rounds and grenades. You have a baton?"

Jaune flicked his right wrist, and a matte black rod telescoped out from a compartment in his gauntlet, ending with a crossguard in his hand. Reagan nodded in satisfaction.

"What happens here is very likely going to color our interactions for the rest of your career, Mister Amsel. _No. Casualties_. Can I count on you?"

" **Yes sir.** " Jaune took a single step backwards, and offered a crisp salute. Winter blinked, and Reagan quirked a brow in surprise, but swiftly returned the courtesy.

"Confer with the SWAT team lead before you execute - make sure that they know what's going on so that they can render appropriate support."

* * *

" _You don't have a plan."_

Winter's words crackled through his earpiece as a statement, rather than a question. "Of _course_ I don't have a plan!" Jaune hissed back on internal comms, "I _never_ have a plan! I've always followed your plans, or else completely winged it!"

"' _Winging it' is not an option with civilian lives at stake."_

"Thank you for clarifying that, ma'am," he drawled thickly. The Legionnaire was worming his way through the crowd of police standing between the armory van and the on-site SWAT teams.

" _Dial it back, Specialist,"_ Winter growled. " _I may just leave you to come up with your own plan for once and call it a learning experience."_

"Alright, alright; my apologies, ma'am," Jaune sighed. "So, I have thirty rounds of twelve gauge bean bag and twenty rounds of double-ought, seventy-two rounds of forty-five FMJ, a carbon-steel knife, and a baton." He took a breath, and idly tugged back the bolt of his shotgun partway, revealing a translucent shell stuffed with a miniscule black-and-blue patchwork sack. "Make that thirty-one bean bag," he amended before continuing.

"From what you've told me already, the front wall is the only method of entrance or egress, unless they decide to use the Dust in the store to blow out one of the reinforced interior walls. They have three fighters blocking line-of-sight from the outside of the door, and seven more inside scattered around the floor. The only solid cover inside is the sales counter in the center, while the floor shelving is thin enough that it only constitutes concealment; and there is no stock room or restroom inside of the shop, because the owner is partnered with the café next door." Jaune stopped and exhaled. "Am I missing anything so far?"

" _Negative; your information is accurate thus far,"_ Winter confirmed. " _Besides that, we have confirmation of two hostages: The owner, an elderly human male with a balding head of grey hair, wearing a gray shirt, black slacks, and a red apron; and one customer, a teenage girl in a black hoodie, black boots, black tights, and grey cutoff shorts."_

"No physical description on the girl?" he quirked a brow.

" _The only footage was pulled from the street cams when she came in around zero-four-hundred. She entered the area and went into the shop with her hood up; so the only characteristic that we can confirm is that she is fairly petite in stature. 'She' might even be a very oddly-dressed 'he,' for all we know."_

"A small hooded teenager, visiting a twenty-four-hour Dust shop at four in the morning," Jaune repeated dryly. "Absolutely _nothing_ suspect about that; no sir."

" _I thought I ordered you to dial back the snark."_

"You made it sound like a somewhat-agreeable suggestion at the time," Jaune corrected nonchalantly. "I'm approaching SWAT. Any last words of wisdom?"

" _I feel like I_ _should be the one asking you_ _for last words of any sort."_

"Now who's being snarky?" he chuckled.

" _Chief Reagan does not want me to be seen by the criminals at any point in the interim, so I will not be in the first response should anything go awry."_ She spoke in terse bites, but trailed off in resignation nonetheless. " _Remember what I said on the Bullhead - the White Fang in Vale are not diehard martyrs like their Atlesian counterparts. I would not be surprised if most of the group here are close to your age and scared out of their wits. You are the more… Sympathetic, of the two of us; I would advise that you try to use that to your advantage first and foremost, and only resort to force if the situation should escalate beyond recovery."_

"You're calling me soft!" Jaune exclaimed with mock-annoyance.

" _Like a marshmallow,"_ Winter affirmed; he pictured her solemn nod, and choked back a snicker. " _Tread cautiously,"_ she said seriously. " _Comparatively undisciplined they might be, it does not make them any less dangerous."_

"'Professional soldiers are predictable,'" Jaune recited, "'The world is full of dangerous amateurs.'"

" _Where did you hear that?"_

"Chief Sergeant has a knack for all of the different ways that the world can kill you."

The link fell into heavy silence, which Jaune took as his cue to switch back to external speakers. Not a moment too soon, either, as the leader of the VPD SWAT team - the man's face hidden behind a black balaclava - stepped up to meet him.

* * *

\- _To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

Carmelo Paxton fidgeted at his post, leaning up against the end of a tall, sturdy shelf loaded with sealed bags of numerous types of granulated and crystalline Dust. His cut-down carbine was clenched tightly in leaden hands, his index finger on the pistol grip and as far removed from the trigger as it could be after his last nervous slip had sent a hypersonic iron-ceramic sliver careening into the floor a meter to his left. The site of impact still smoked faintly in the corner of his visage, and he repressed another apologetic wince as he noticed two of the others examining the cracked and peeling vinyl around the spot.

Putting seven armed men together in the same room and leaving them to wait for the police force outside to make a move was a recipe for slaughter, Pax decided. Guns were held constantly at the ready, tempers were frayed to the point that most simple conversations devolved into pointless arguments and aggressive gesturing, and _his tail was getting pinched by his belt, again._

The Coyote Faunus snarled silently in irritation, taking a hand off of the stock of his carbine to reach back and tug at his belt and waistband to free the sensitive hairs of his canine appendage. While the White Fang's leadership typically allowed for the customization of uniform parts to accommodate prominent Faunus traits, a mandate had recently come down stating that, for all members assigned to Dust robberies, unaltered uniforms were to be worn beneath disguises to ensure as much anonymity as possible. As such, his bushy brown-and-grey tail was stuffed haphazardly into the back of his black fatigues, and a few hairs would occasionally slip free when he shifted and become pinched between his belt and one of the belt loops, sending unpleasant jolts from his tailbone all the way up his spine.

"You _could_ just let it out, you know," a small voice came from behind and below him, "It's not like any of us are going to be going anywhere anytime soon."

Tiny Voice made a good point.

"Sure, Carmie! Why not print up your own wanted posters while you're at it?"

"It's because of _you_ and your obnoxious little motormouth that she knows our names in the first place, _Alvin_ ," Pax bit back with a hidden eye-roll, taking a measure of satisfaction in the sneering rodent Faunus's high-pitched squeak of indignation. All three participants stiffened, however, when a booming call came from across the room.

"What did I _just_ get done telling you idiots about arguing in front of the hostages?" the Sergeant called out. Pax turned and noted that all three of the mission's heads were currently staring squarely in his direction, no doubt glaring at him and Alvin from behind their masks.

"Sorry, Sarge!" Alvin chirped back immediately.

"Just… Take a post in the northwest corner and cover the doors," the nominal leader of the mission growled tiredly, pointing towards a spot on the other side of the shop that had a decent view of the front wall from behind a low set of shelves. "And Pax, stay focused," he added half-heartedly. Carmelo brought his free hand to his brow in an informal salute.

After a few moments, in which Alvin relocated to his post and the others chafed at the silence, the three commanders resumed their huddle, exchanging hushed words and gestures.

"Sorry," Tiny Voice whispered apologetically, "I didn't mean to get you guys in trouble."

It was depressing that Pax could easily believe it. Nevertheless, he released a frustrated puff of air, and did his best to focus on an 'intimidating and in control' mindset.

"Just keep quiet while we get this sorted out," he muttered back, keeping his sight fixed firmly on the doorway.

"... You guys know that they're not just going to let you walk, right?" The voice was quieter still, if that was even possible. "It's one thing if one of you got caught running away… But now we're all here, and the police need something to show for it after all of the other stuff that you've already gotten away with. Not to mention that they're not the only ones who'll want you to answer for this…"

The last bit was nearly inaudible, and spoken with such remorse that Pax simply couldn't bring himself take it as the threat that it really was.

"Don't count us out yet," he stated simply, thinking back to the news that their cell had received shortly before departing the previous night. "These old dogs still have a few tricks up our sleeves."

He heard the voice blink. "Isn't that…?"

"It's not racist, it's a _figure of speech_ ," Pax quickly defended, earning a short giggle before silence encompassed the immediate area once more.

It was the overbearing quiet that allowed every occupant of the shop to catch the murmurs that arose from the other side of the heavy front door. Whatever conversation was taking place was indiscernible, even to Pax's keen ears.

What was apparent, however, was the faint static that arose whenever one particular voice was raised. It was similar to the niggling sensation that he would get whenever someone turned on an old television in an adjacent room of his childhood home; even if the volume was turned down too low to be heard, the device's presence was still evident from the vibrations in the air.

After a minute, though, the voices fell silent. No breath was drawn, and all eyes were fixed on the richly-stained oak door. The Sergeant slowly raised a hand and glanced around the room, gesturing with two fingers towards the entryway; nods were sent back, and carbines and pistols were gingerly raised in the indicated direction, as the fighters all feared that being the first to break the silence would be the final trigger for the calamity that they had waited for all morning.

The gleaming brass door knob rattled, and muscles and trigger fingers tensed sharply in anticipation. The door finally swung open, and for an instant, many of their deepest fears were realized.

One of their own comrades had opened the door, and was attempting to make herself as small as possible on the outside of the doorway. The effort was pointless, as even at the girl's full height, she would have passed as little more than a hill beside a mountain.

Worn black boots capped with brushed steel crossed the threshold, each deliberate step crashing in time with the room's collective pulse. Thickly-woven dark grey cargo pants rustled faintly, accompanied by the clinking of numerous small pouches on a pistol belt. A thick gunmetal chest piece wrapped around sheer black fibers, and matching metal pauldrons rested on broad shoulders. More inky fibers trimmed with a pair of parallel crimson lines trailed down to flat gunmetal gauntlets, and ended in a pair of gloves that looked to have been dipped into a pool of fresh blood, barring a strip of cracked black polymer across the knuckles that looked to have seen a fair bit of abuse.

Pax's gaze reached the top of the figure as it came to a rest, and he forgot how to breathe.

' _Where is its face…?'_ his mind demanded, internalized terror beginning to surface. ' _Where the hell is its fucking face?!'_

An unadorned gunmetal oval sprouted from atop a thick armored collar, fused to the front of a plain black helmet. The visage swept across the room, causing heart palpitations and breathless gasps as it passed; it settled on Pax, prompting him to become conscious of the lack of oxygen in his body. Eyes wide behind his mask, the young Faunus inhaled deeply through his nose, but dared not to exhale until the featureless countenance finally turned away. He swallowed thickly, only to be stricken by the dusty vacuum left in place of saliva.

"And just who the hell are you supposed to be?"

Heads snapped towards the Sergeant, whose unseen gaze remained unabashedly fixed on the strange figure's absent visage.

The same heads turned back in time to watch the elliptical steel plate tilt faintly to one side.

" **Your last chance for deliverance."**

The synthesized baritone evoked a chill to accompany the jolt that shot up Pax's spine as the electrical ring assaulted his ears with greater vigor than ever before.

"And what exactly does _that_ mean?" the Sergeant pressed through gritted teeth, his muscles coiled tightly under the offensive against his senses.

The figure seemed to take note of this, as it slowly raised one hand, and one finger, while reaching up with the other hand the side of its head. It pressed against an unseen indentation between its collar and helmet, and a hiss of escaping air filled the void. A crease appeared in the smooth metal at the center of the shape, and the group winced in anticipation as the lower section of the mask retracted into the upper, to reveal…

… A completely normal human mouth, which was currently curled into a frown at one side.

"Sorry about the theatrics," the young man - probably not much younger or older than Pax himself - apologized, his voice quiet and hoarse. "I've just got this thing with my throat right now," his stance loosened as he pointed to his armor-encased neck, "And the helmet makes it easier to speak clearly. I guess I've never had to actually _talk_ to people with sensitive hearing while wearing it before."

He cleared his throat with a pained grimace before continuing. "Anyway, I hope you'll understand why I want to try and keep this short. Basically, I'm your last opportunity to sort this out peacefully before somebody does something stupid and people get hurt."

The Sergeant, looking relieved at the break in the previously oppressive atmosphere, still bristled at the man's words. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

"It's an observation," the man shrugged. "You're jumpy, everybody outside is jumpy, everybody has guns - there's an obvious conclusion if we're all stuck here too much longer. I want to avoid that." He glanced around the shop, pausing on the old shopkeeper, and then again on Pax; who in turn only managed to avoid being baited because of a sharp glance from one of the Sergeant's cohort. "Where's the other hostage?"

"Now hold the fuck on!" the Sergeant's other companion stomped a short ways in the man's direction, face twisted into a snarl that displayed a set of elongated canines. "You still haven't told us who the hell you even are to be barging in here and making demands of us!"

"To be fair, I didn't just _barge in_ ," he observed mildly, "Your friends let me in after I talked to them. But, well… Basically, I'm a Specialist."

It sounded like there was supposed to be a capital letter in there, but it was hard to tell for sure from his impassive expression.

"Which means…?" the Sergeant prompted with an unimpressed drawl and a confused gesture of open hand.

"Well, I deal with unusual problems," the man shrugged again. "I'll admit that hostage situations are kind of new to me, but the Chief outside is at a bit of a loss after you chased off the first negotiator. So, here I am."

"So let me see if I've got this right," the Sergeant held up a hand, the other one rising to pinch of nose bridge of his mask. "We chase off the scrawny little PhD in body armor, and Vale's Chief of Police decides to send in a… _Specialist_... Unarmed, in full combat armor, with no experience and an irritating voice changer?"

"I wouldn't say I'm _inexperienced_ ," the man protested indignantly, "I'm just…" he scratched at the back of his helmet and seemed to struggle to find the right words, "... A different _kind_ of experienced."

The aggressive fighter from earlier took another step forward and brandished his carbine. "You've got ten seconds to start making sense before we chase you out," he growled lowly, now only a few paces from the intruder.

The Specialist's nerves fell away from his expression, and he took a single step forward - stooping down and reminding everyone of just how uncomfortably _large_ he was in that armor - and pressed a single finger into the side of the offending weapon. "I'm a _soldier_ ," he enunciated slowly.

He then pushed off sharply with his gloved finger, and sent the aggressor staggering backwards several steps. The rest of the sagging rifles and pistols in the room snapped up, and the soldier returned to his previous position, calmly raising his hands to shoulder height, palms facing outward.

"We're running out of time, and my voice is going again, so I would suggest that you listen carefully." Any hesitation had left his voice, and the soldier spoke at a clipped pace, as clearly as his hoarse tone allowed. "There are well over a hundred police officers outside of that door, spread out over a block in every direction. There are also at least three SWAT teams, armed to the teeth and itching to go. You aren't regular criminals - you're all fighters. But you're also totally out of your depth."

The assembled Fang bristled, but the soldier carried on bluntly. "In this room, you have two innocent people who are guilty of nothing more than being here at the wrong time." Pax closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in frustration.

"I have fought against the White Fang before," the soldier admitted candidly, even as fingers tensed against triggers around the room. "And in doing so, I have recognized that you have no interest in harming innocent people. We are here, now, as the result of an unfortunate series of events beyond the control of anyone in this room; but inside of this room, _we_ will decide how this story ends."

"'We?'" one of the others parroted incredulously. The Specialist nodded resolutely and continued.

" _We_. Now, the way that I want this to end is with me walking out of the door behind me along with your hostages, while you surrender peacefully to the VPD outside to be taken into custody and stand a fair trial. I can see," he added quickly as Pax and several others moved forward, "That that isn't agreeable to you guys. So, let's talk about this. What can I offer you that would allow me to walk out of here with those two?"

"Legislation ensuring Faunus workers' right to unbiased consideration for employment based on qualification, and an official statement of condemnation of the treatment of Faunus citizens and workers by the Schnee Dust Company and the Kingdom of Atlas," the Sergeant rattled off faithfully, earning a short cheer of agreement from Pax and the others.

"I can't give promise you that," the soldier sighed. "I _can_ put you into contact with the Chief of Police and the Council of Vale if you agree to release the hostages."

"The moment that we release the hostages, we will be shot without hesitation, and this whole incident will be censored by the media before breakfast," the Sergeant accused.

The soldier was silent for a few moments, before offering a rebuttal. "Leniency in exchange for disarmament and cooperation with law enforcement."

"Privilege from arrest," Pax blurted out; many heads snapped towards his direction, and he felt his cheeks flush crimson as he shrank back and tried to become one with the shelves behind him.

Instead of scolding him, however, the Sergeant offered him a faint nod, and then looked back to the soldier expectantly.

The Specialist's visor tilted towards the floor contemplatively. Finally, he looked up again - briefly glancing to Pax, before looking back to the Sergeant.

"I can't promise that the VPD won't try to arrest you-"

"Then we have nothing left to discuss," the Sergeant interrupted coolly. Pax took the unspoken cue with a knot in his stomach.

The soldier didn't move, even as three of the fighters holstered their pistols and drew crimson blades, moving at glacial speed and slowing further as they crept closer and closer. Pax let out a thin breath as he fought to keep his carbine lined up on the soldier's chestplate. Beneath the dull steel of the visor, he watched the corner of the soldier's expression tighten into a frown.

" _Stop_." For some inexplicable reason, the three oncoming fighters did. They exchanged looks, but none dared to look back to the Sergeant, already able to picture the Bear Faunus's own irate scowl, wordlessly fighting to push them onward. "Listen. I can't control the actions of the police outside. _But_ , that's not to say that I'm powerless."

"What can you even do?" the Sergeant snapped. "You can't influence public policy, and you can't grant us immunity from the droves of humans outside that would like nothing more than an excuse to take our heads. So then, _soldier_. What. Can. You. Do?!"

"I can stop you!" the soldier croaked back. His voice cracked when his throat beat out his shout, and a hushed snicker ran through the ranks of the White Fang. It died as soon as they noticed that he still hadn't moved, and his lips were now set in a thin line. "I can stop you," he repeated quietly, unseen eyes sweeping around the room. "I won't allow innocent people to come to harm when I am in a position to stop it, and right now, I'm _here_. And I _can_ stop you. Or…" he trailed off, and finally moved - pivoting on his heel until one shoulder was towards them, and the other towards the door.

"Or I can stop _them_ from harming _you_ , if you agree to let these two go."

"Bullshit," the Sergeant snapped immediately. "You would stand between us and hundreds of cops to save two people? When you've already claimed that you can take us all? You're either a compulsive liar, or the worst kind of fucking lunatic hero!" The Bear scowled in disgust and spat into the space separating him from the soldier.

The soldier's fists tightened in response, and Pax's pulse spiked in anticipation of the terminus. Four high-capacity electrically-accelerated carbines and three swords against one man that stood, body and soul, between the White Fang and martyrdom.

Carmelo Paxton didn't want to die. But right here and now, faced with the choice between death and the sham that was pushed onto Faunus and called "Justice," he could at least fight for his right to decide his own fate.

But the soldier didn't take the plunge. He didn't lunge at one of the melee fighters, didn't try to cut and run for the hostages or the door, both only a few powerful strides away. Instead, he raised his hands, and Pax braced on the trigger.

The clenched fists rose - and then continued to rise, and settled on either side of his helmet. Someone's breath audibly hitched, and the headgear rose up and away slowly, eventually coming to be held loosely in one hand off to the side.

Pax's earlier estimate was proven correct: The young man in front of him was likely a few years his junior. In the context of the whole face, he had a sharp jawline, cratered on one side by a cluster of circular indentations beneath the skin. His complexion was of sun-starved honey, almost pale enough to disguise the faint scar beside his eye. The upper reaches of the midday sky gazed around the room, meeting each masked face in turn before settling back on the Sergeant.

The soldier looked tired. His face and eyes were beset by lines, casting shadows and leaving the impression of an unspeakable weight upon his visage. Paxton found that he could sympathize with that kind of exhaustion right now.

"If you'll believe me," the soldier said slowly, "I'll tell you that I'm not a liar. And I can't say that I've ever qualified as a 'hero.' But, I am a man of honor; because my honor is all that I have left to call my own.

"I told you already that the people in this room would be the ones to decide the outcome of this day, and I meant it. Some of the people out there might want you arrested; more of them might want you dead. The Council of Vale might want you dead, or they might want to make an example of you." His expression darkened noticeably. "Your own superiors - and mine, for that matter - might want us alive, or they might prefer to have us as martyrs." Pax's throat clenched at the thought. "But they're not here. If they really wanted to have a say in our fates, then they would be in here with us - but they're not. So I don't really give a damn what they want."

"What I want," he spoke with grave finality, "Is for no one to die here. What I want is to take these two innocent people, if you'll let me." He heaved a great breath, and his eyes became alive with fire. "And then what I want - if you'll put your trust in me, and take me on my word and my honor - is to see to it that you're all seen on your way… With the knowledge that if we ever find ourselves here again, my honor will demand that I see you all brought to answer for your crimes."

The soldier let the final threat hang. After a moment of intense staring, he seemed to take too deep of a breath, and descended into a fit of rasping coughs.

For once, the Sergeant was surveying his troops. The hulking Faunus was looking around to meet the eyes of each of his subordinates in turn. Most were wary; but all seemed equally weary of their situation, to the point that the moderates were readily agreeable, and even the hardliners were on the fence.

Pax's thoughts ran a tortoise's race. Without looking down at his wrist watch, he knew that two hours had passed; one hundred and twenty minutes, seventy-two hundred seconds, spent cooped up in the same fifty-odd square meters of shop. How long had it been since he had taken his post? Well over an hour, at the least. The tiredness enveloping his mind was suddenly accompanied by a terrible aching stiffness in his legs and feet, and he leaned back unconsciously against the end of the shelves.

He had been pulled straight from guard duty for this job. He had been told that the entire operation would last two hours, tops, to round out the eight that he had spent pacing the catwalks and alcoves of the White Fang's storage facility. Before that, he had worked the morning for his uncle on the edge of the industrial sector, helping the old man's shorthanded crew offload and set up a new box-packing machine that would hopefully bolster production at his dry-goods plant, which had fallen on hard times because of a new government bill that promoted trade with Vacuo and dropped the market prices of a number of his products.

Pax shook his head to dismiss the hazy tangent. By all rights, he should have been back at his apartment right now, snatching as much sleep as possible before he would have to turn up for a full day shift at the plant in - he finally glanced down at his watch, and then looked back up and swallowed a loud, frustrated groan - exactly two hours.

When the Sergeant finally reached him, Pax barely hesitated to nod with as much conviction as he could muster. He'd rather have the soldier with them and against them, doubly so in their current circumstances.

"Alright," the Sergeant finally said aloud. "What do we need to do?"

The soldier blinked in apparent surprise. "Um… Well, first off, wait one minute." He raised the helmet from his side and seated it back on his head; he then pressed a button the side and turned slightly away, raising a hand to disguise his mouth as he spoke quietly, presumably into a radio.

Pax could've shouted and jumped for joy; they were finally going home.

Then he heard Tiny Voice inhale faintly, and whisper.

" _What's that nasty smell?"_

Dreams of freedom and a warm bed cracked and fell away like shards of a broken mirror as Pax took his own whiff. His throat seized at the stench, and his head whipped around towards an air vent in the back corner of the shop, above the spot that Alvin had been stationed before the soldier arrived. From the innocuous grey metal slats, a pale yellow cloud wafted continuously into the open air, dispersing a short distance away from the vent until it was practically invisible.

Pax's gaze turned back to the soldier, and the Coyote snarled loudly, drawing the attention of the Sergeant. "They're gassing us!" he snapped to the other Fang.

The soldier's helm snapped towards him at the same instant as everyone weapon in the room was raised for the last time.

"So that's your game, then?!" the Sergeant boomed with righteous indignation, "Keep us talking until everybody's dead on their feet from your nerve gas?!"

" _What?!_ " The soldier's incredulity sounded pretty convincing, Pax would give him that. "No! I swear to you, I never-"

"Never gave the order? It was just in your back pocket for when you decided that you'd had enough of talking down to the _gullible Faunus?!_ "

"I had nothing to do with it!" the soldier snapped, "This was _my_ operation, I told the police to stay the hell away and let me sort this out peacefully!"

"'Peacefully?'" the Sergeant drawled back mockingly. "Well even if that's true, it looks like you were wrong, Soldier Boy! Because guess what? All that good shit that you were talking about 'deciding our own fates'? Well, that's all well and good for you _humans_." The Bear Faunus spread his arms wide, gesturing with one hand to the vent, and the other to the rest of the White Fang around the shop.

"But in humanity's eyes, the fate of the Faunus has been decided: So long as we draw breath, we will never be allowed to know acceptance, or prosperity, or _peace!_ "

The Sergeant smacked a spade-sized hand against the action on his carbine; the weapon responded with a low whine and a dull red glow through its circuitry, which was quickly echoed all throughout the room.

The soldier stood stock-still for a long moment, before glancing around the room and being met only by the Grimm-masked visages of the White Fang, faces twisted into snarls of unfettered hatred.

"It doesn't have to be this way… I don't _want_ it to be this way!"

Pax snorted at the weak murmur of protest, and the Sergeant shot the human a derisive grin. "Well then take this lesson to heart, _boy_ \- one man's hopes and dreams alone aren't going to change the way things are. That's why _we_ exist. And now, you're standing in our way."

The solder shook his head slowly; his mouth set in a thin line, and the rest of his expression unreadable behind his blank visor. "Well then, I suppose I'll just have to stop you after all."

The Sergeant's grin twisted into feral amusement. "Is that right? Tell me, Soldier Boy: You and what army?"

The soldier's head stopped shaking, and the human heaved a great sigh. Then, his head snapped forward sharply, and the rest of the helmet snapped into place; when it turned back up, the Faceless Soldier returned the Sergeant's gaze flatly, and Pax felt his rage falter as the drone of static filled the air again.

" **It must be hard to see through all of that hatred. Otherwise, you'd already recognize the truth that's staring you in the face."** The Soldier rolled his neck and popped his knuckles, eliciting a series of dull cracks that reverberated throughout the space. " **I don't need an army."**

Pax's heart dropped like a rock when the Soldier's wrist snapped out, and a slim black baton appeared in his hand with a piercing metallic ring.

" **I am** _ **Legion.**_ "

The Soldier _moved_. Gunfire erupted. And within the same instant, Carmelo Paxton's world was filled with a new kind of pain, to be replaced shortly after by a black, unknowing void.

* * *

 **End Chapter 3**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **Hello again! My post-secondary education hasn't killed me. Taken a pretty good chunk out of my dignity and personal finances, certainly - but I digress.**

 **I do apologize for the wait for this chapter. Plenty on my plate already, and on top of that, this guy was actually a serious pain for me, because I wasn't sure at first about how I wanted to approach the standoff. That being said, this time was what I needed to come to a satisfactory conclusion and produce a quality product, so I ultimately do not regret the tradeoff.**

 **Carmelo Paxton is an entirely original character (to my conscious knowledge), and will continue to serve in the future as an insider perspective on life within the Valean White Fang. He's down and out of the fight for now, but he'll come back into play in the next chapter to wrap up the situation and get eyes on a critical transition within the plot. A few short notes on some of the other characters introduced here can be found under the "Production Notes" header in my profile bio.**

 **Overall, while I do readily admit that I had a lot of trouble getting into the swing of writing this one, I ended up having quite a bit of fun once I got the neurons firing, thanks in no small part to Crosswire. It's noticeably dialogue heavy; but I feel good about the writing and the direction of the narrative, and now I'm looking forward to closing out this event and moving forward with Beacon and Vale in the lead-up to the start of the semester at Beacon.**

 **So, Jaune Arc had his go at resolving the situation - and he very nearly succeeded. Unfortunately, "nearly" only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades; and it's now on Specialist Jonathan Amsel to put an end to this regrettable disaster.**

 **Tune in next time for our thrilling conclusion - same time, same station.**

 **-Knightmare Frame Razgriz**


	5. Chapter 4

_\- To Serve With Honor -_

As his first target crumpled under the force of his right hook like a marionette with its strings cut, Jaune was already twisting in place to observe the rest of the room.

The two remaining gunmen that had been hanging on the fringes of the cluster had disappeared from sight, either behind the register counter, or towards the edges of the room, hidden from sight by tall shelves containing bags upon bags of lesser-quality granulated Dust.

Meanwhile, the White Fang commander had withdrawn along with one hostage, the shopkeep, and was taking a post within the waist-high confines of the sales counter. The three sword-bearing fighters - initially stunned at the speed and power displayed by Jaune's first blow - now recovered and spread themselves out at his front and towards his flanks.

"There is no way that this plays out where it ends well for you!" Jaune barked, only to instinctively raise his arm and stumble as a sword crashed into and was deflected off of his angled gauntlet.

"I could say the same for you, Soldier Boy!" the commander shot back with a sardonic grin. "And I'd also say that if our best possible outcome at least allows us to avenge our fallen brothers and sisters, then I'll take it and settle for nothing less than complete success."

The pistol in the commander's free hand snapped up, and Jaune was forced to dive awkwardly back into the nearest aisle. A round still brushed over the face of his chestplate, the tiny glowing projectile carving a thin furrow through the brushed composite metal like the edge of a hot knife through butter.

More rounds snapped above his head as he landed roughly on his back and slid for a short distance with a shrill squeal of metal on linoleum, until he finally skidded to a stop halfway down the aisle.

Rows and rows of sealed paper bags and tins of Dust lined the high shelves, obscuring his view of the encircling White Fang fighters - and more importantly, removing him from their immediate line of fire, lest they risk activating the volatile substance with a misplaced shot. The melee fighters must have recognized this hazard, as they had opted to withdraw rather than give chase while their commander was firing on him.

Rolling over into a push-up position and climbing to his feet sluggishly under the weight of his armor, Jaune paused in a crouch and ran a gloved finger over the new trench in his chest plate with a frown beneath his visor. ' _That one isn't going to buff out,'_ he observed with a resigned sigh.

The Legionnaire's lamentation was interrupted as the crash of booted footfalls echoed from the rear of the store. Jaune inhaled deeply; and when he exhaled, he took off at a sprint, and reached the end of the shelves in time to ram shoulder-first into one of the last two gunmen at full tilt.

His charge lasted for half a second, before both men came to a dead stop with a sickening crunch of bone and yielding drywall as his impromptu crash pad slumped to the floor, unconscious and probably concussed.

A tiny voice squeaked from somewhere behind Jaune. "On your left!" Sure enough, a short glance revealed the final gunman lining up a shot with his carbine.

Without missing a beat, Jaune stooped and seized the unconscious fighter by the collar and hem of his jacket. With blood set aflame in his ears and on the edges of his vision, he hefted the body to shoulder height, and with a roar of defiance, hurled the comatose terrorist at his own bewildered comrade.

Jaune was trailing shortly behind his projectile; and when the two White Fang fighters hit the ground in a pile of tangled limbs, he was there to end the short-lived bout with a swift stomp to the head that shattered his opponent's Aura and knocked him out cold.

The immediate threat effectively removed, Jaune was finally able to glance over to the source of his helpful hint; his hidden gaze came to rest on a bundle of black and grey clothing huddled up on the floor against one of the aisle shelves.

' _Found our second hostage,'_ he noted with satisfaction. "Are you hurt?"

"I feel like I should be asking you that," the mousy, and decidedly feminine voice replied; Jaune could swear that there was a lilting note of amusement in the statement. "B-but no, I'm fine," the girl stammered quickly, this time with an appropriate degree of apprehension in her tone.

"Good," he acknowledged with a short nod, turning his body to double around to the opposite side of the store. "Then stay here, stay low, and stay out of sight; I'll call you when it's clear for you to come out." He stopped short of taking off, and twisted his head back vaguely in the girl's direction. "By the way - what's your name?"

"... I'm Daiyu," she replied shyly. "And… Thank you, for not killing them."

Jaune quirked a brow - was she a sympathizer? Or just one of those rare kind souls? "Call me Jack," he eventually stated, "And I don't want or need to kill them; it's not my place to pass that sentence."

The girl nodded, uncertain of how to respond. She settled for huddling back further into the shelf, once more becoming an unobtrusive bundle of cloth on the floor.

Jaune turned back to his last victims and absently kicked their carbines away, at the same time straining his hearing to try and discern whether or not the three swordsmen had decided to give chase; but the store had fallen deathly silent.

He stood fully upright and peered cautiously over the tops of the shelves - only to immediately realize that visual stealth was an exercise in futility, thanks to the massive brushed steel beacon over his face.

This was made even more apparent when a round from a handgun snapped past his head, forcing him to duck back down into cover and keep moving on his flanking route.

"You'd best surrender now, Soldier Boy!" the White Fang commander's voice boomed and echoed around the high ceiling of the store, "The old man doesn't seem particularly appreciative of my offer of a new air hole for his skull!"

"Let the man go and face me like you know something about honor and dignity!" Jaune snapped back instinctively; he immediately flinched and cursed himself as several pairs of boots thundered into action.

Two of the three Fang swordsmen rounded the shelves in front of him, crimson blades held aloft; a short glance behind him revealed the third swordsman at his back, creeping towards him slowly.

The commander appeared a ways behind the pair at his front, dragging the old shopkeep along in a headlock and holding a pistol aloft in his free hand. The burly Faunus sneered at Jaune and pressed the barrel of his weapon to the top of the shopkeep's balding head, eliciting a panicked whimper from the elderly man.

"Honor is for Huntsmen, and other people with the power or the privilege to claim it," the commander drawled. "For the rest of us without that power, that birthright? Honor is a fantasy reserved for idealists and dead men."

Jaune's breath hitched, and the hollow steel hilt of his baton crumpled under his white-knuckle grip.

"You know what, _friend?_ "

The fighters' wary advance faltered at the growl that emerged from the impassive colossus.

"You're right."

The lone swordsman at his back lunged, his blade set to impale the soldier. Jaune took everyone by surprise when he hopped back and to one side, at the same time swinging an arm out and clotheslining his would-be-killer with his gauntlet. The Faunus's feet slipped out from beneath him, and he hit the floor clutching at his throat.

"A person requires some kind of power in order to uphold a claim to honor," Jaune continued, his tone changing into something conversational as he stepped over the prone form of his assailant. "However, I think that you've got the wrong idea about just what constitutes that power."

Jaune lunged, baton held forth and swinging. His weapon was met by another sword, whose owner was dispatched with an uppercut to the stomach and a sharp smack across the face from the metal bludgeon.

"It doesn't take Aura to have honor." He parried the final swordsman's crosswise slash, and replied with a boot to the fighter's stomach that sent the Fang staggering back drunkenly. "It doesn't take fancy armor, high-end weapons, or top-notch training."

He continued to walk towards the commander at a sedate clip. "Not gonna lie; those things are all pretty useful," he admitted, "But they're not absolute requisites to being honorable."

The last fighter had recovered and advanced cautiously back into melee range, striking out with a measured swipe that was once again parried. The Faunus hopped back to evade the knee aimed at his stomach, and made to riposte – only to recognize that the soldier was now well and truly inside of his guard, and currently had an iron grip on both his sword's hilt and the accompanying hand.

A single brief application of vice-like pressure brought the swordsman to his knees with a cry of pain, which was immediately cut off by a knee to the face. The unconscious body slumped to the floor accompanied by the faint clatter of chips of shattered ceramic hitting tile, and Jaune was left staring down the White Fang commander at ten paces - a shivering old man between them, and three bodies at his back.

"The White Fang certainly isn't lacking in conviction," Jaune allowed, "But what you're missing instead are discipline, vision, and _compassion_."

The commander's scowl was shaky as his masked gaze swept over the three unconscious bodies on the floor, and the soldier finally recognized how surreal it must feel to be receiving a lecture on the ethics of warfare while watching your subordinates being casually decimated. Jaune sighed wearily and restrained himself from running a palm over his faceplate.

"Look, I get where you guys are coming from. I jumped headlong into the service thinking that I was going to be a hero for all mankind; then they put a gun in my hands, put me in front of people, and told me that it was either me or them."

He spun the baton around in his hand, and pressed on the end with his free hand until the segments compressed back into the mangled housing. He slipped the compacted bludgeon back into his gauntlet, and folded his arms across his chest, staring flatly at the commander. The Faunus man's headlock on the shopkeep had loosened somewhat, and the barrel of the pistol had drifted slightly offset to the terrified man's head.

"For a long time, I thought that that was it; I was a killer, and that would never change because the people that controlled me wouldn't _allow_ it." Jaune's head tilted to one side, and a small, wistful smile crossed his lips. "But then, someone came along and showed me the only thing keeping me from being the hero that I'd always dreamed of… Was myself."

Jaune took another step forward, eliciting no reaction from the distracted White Fang commander. "I've made mistakes," the soldier declared, "Taken lives without due process. Shattered families and friendships from behind weak excuses of duty, patriotism, and 'not having a choice.' And these mistakes have earned me nothing but wisdom that I could've just as easily gained without the death and destruction that I caused."

The soldier stood his ground within spitting distance of the terrorist and his hostage, and held out his hand, palm up and fingers splayed. "Now I'm giving you the opportunity to learn that for yourself, without making the same wasteful mistakes that I did. Let the old man go. And if you think you _need_ to put up a fight to avenge your comrades, then put 'em up and come at me."

The White Fang commander stared at the hand in silence for a long moment, and Jaune felt a bead of sweat collecting at the edge of his brow.

Then, the commander exhaled through his nose, and holstered his handgun on his belt. "If it means that you'll finally stop preaching at me like you aren't already planning to punch my lights out, I'll let the old man go," the bear of a Faunus grunted, uncoiling his arm from around the shopkeep's neck and shoving the elderly man away roughly. The former hostage hit the linoleum floor with a startled cry, and immediately crawled out of sight with all due haste.

This left the two giants in an impasse at ten paces; arms hanging loosely at their sides, fists clenched tightly in anticipation.

"Thank you," Jaune offered off-handedly.

"Shut up and hold still," the commander growled, dropping into a lower stance and raising his fists in front of him. "I need to punch you until my justice comes out."

Jaune mimicked the stance; and then he blinked, and the last Fang standing was suddenly flying at him with a chambered punch and a mighty roar.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

The second report of shots being fired sent the entire Vale Police force into a barely-competent frenzy.

The sheer number of people crammed into the surrounding streets made maneuvering as an individual a nigh-impossible task, resulting in officers forming into rippling blue blobs of humanity that flowed amorphously through the rest of the sea, narrowing and expanding in size as necessary to move in whichever direction they desired.

At the command trailer, however, the waves parted and broke as they encountered the invisible and impenetrable barrier of Specialist Winter Schnee's icy stare. As a result, the VPD commanders and their guest were left with two meters of space in any direction; any unsuspecting officer that dared to break the unspoken perimeter was rendered immobile with a sharp glare of contempt before being swiftly sucked back into the swell by their colleagues.

As this organized chaos went on, Reagan, Carmen, and Paul remained apparently oblivious, their attentions fixated squarely on the surveillance and body camera feeds and radio chatter in front of them. The Chief and the Inspector stared at a few monitors each with the same intensity as toddlers encountering television for the first time; while Paul's hand never seemed to move away from the receiver on his collar for more than half a second before another call came in that required his attention.

' _He'll be needing a chiropractor for whiplash before the morning is over,'_ Winter noted with a touch of vindictive amusement as the portly man's head snapped back to his radio for the tenth time that minute.

"Do we know what happened yet?" she asked once more.

"Short burst of small-arms fire from multiple automatic weapons simultaneously, followed by silence, and then handgun fire," Carmen recited matter-of-factly.

Winter shot her a deadpan stare that bore heavy overtones of 'Thank you, Captain Obvious.'

Carmen sent an indulgent smile in return.

"It seems pretty obvious what happened," Paul chimed in after releasing his radio; he waited a beat, and then sighed quietly in relief as no further reports came in. "Your attack dog botched his negotiations, and was probably just ventilated for his troubles," he concluded with a nonchalant shrug.

Winter and Reagan turned and gaped at the man's audacity. " _Paul!"_ the Chief barked sharply.

"Calling it as I see it, sir," Paul replied unapologetically. "He wasn't qualified to go in, and this is where it's gotten him."

"He isn't dead," Winter stated flatly. Paul stared back at her; his lidded eyes carried whispers of sympathy, while the quirk of his lips spoke whole volumes of condescension.

"Miss Schnee, while I understand that Aura is one hell of a drug, I've also yet to see anyone survive concentrated gunfire and a magazine of pistol ammo to the head, Aura or no."

Reagan opened his mouth again to silence the man, only to stop when someone broke through the cordon and strode purposefully towards the group. The incoming officer was halted in the dead zone between the commanders and the perimeter by Winter's glare, and flushed and shrank back upon realizing that all eyes were now on him.

"Out with it, Lieutenant," Reagan sighed wearily.

"S-sir," the officer stuttered in affirmation. He took a shaky breath to collect himself, and then looked to Paul. "The engineers and techs have confirmed successful deployment of the sleeping gas into the shop's ventilation system."

Eyes all around grew wide, before one pair of cold blue irises narrowed in rage. Someone gestured to the messenger, and the Lieutenant - recognizing the drastic shift in the air - gracelessly dove back into the sea of uniforms.

Paul winced and finally had the decency to look sheepish. "To be honest, I had forgotten all about issuing that order."

Winter responded by crossing the distance between them. The Specialist's heeled boots gave her some height over the VPD commander, and she leveraged every centimeter as she glared frozen hellfire down onto the man.

"So," she bit out, "Your negotiator failed. You called for our support, either before or after issuing the order to deploy _sleeping gas_ against _Faunus_ terrorists – who, for your information, happen to have _heightened olfactory senses_." She enunciated the phrase with as much condescension as she could muster, and further emphasized it by jabbing a gloved finger into his chest with every strained word. "You decided that you did not feel the need to place any stock or faith in my colleague's abilities, knowingly sent him into the area of effect, and then _conveniently forgot_ to countermand the order with the belief that it would be less of a hassle to gun down _murderers_ than to subdue, arrest, and incarcerate _terrorists_."

She stared down at the incompetent _filth_ in front of her with all of the contempt that she could muster, accompanied by a venomous scowl that prominently displayed her impeccably whitened incisors. "Just _calling it as I see it_ ," she concluded through gritted teeth; she then stepped back, turned on her heel, and returned to her previous position.

Reagan regarded the two of them impassively for a long while thereafter as the crowd continued to bustle around them all. Carmen, on the other hand, zoned in on Winter, observing with unabashed amusement as the Specialist swiftly schooled her features into measured discontent.

Finally, as Paul started to squirm under the scrutiny, the Chief heaved yet another great sigh, and turned fully to face Winter. "In light of Commander Umber's mistake, I'm willing to overlook this incident with regards to our arrangement-"

He was silenced by the ring of shattering glass echoing across the block. The commanders and the Specialist all zeroed in on the monitor bank, and immediately took note of the newly-missing east window of the storefront – as well as the burly White Fang fighter lying flat on the pavement some three to four meters from his impromptu exit.

A hulking form of grey, black and maroon followed the terrorist through the window, albeit under his own power and at a decidedly more sedate pace.

Winter took a moment to shoot the thoroughly bewildered Commander Paul Umber a Cheshire grin before she launched herself into the sea of officers in the direction of the fight.

* * *

"Has anyone ever told you that you punch like an Ursa?" Jaune asked conversationally as his boots crunched over the shattered glass from the window. The comment was the best he could do to simultaneously acknowledge and distract himself from his aching ribs – several of which may or may not have been fractured. "I mean that in the most complimentary way, of course," he added as an afterthought.

"I've… Heard that one… Once or twice," the White Fang commander panted as he pushed himself to his feet, his exposed arms and hands relatively unscathed for having been thrown through bodily through a window, thanks to his Aura. "Anybody… Ever told you… That you're a mouthy… Dodgy… Obnoxious little fuck?"

"Yeah, I get that one all the time," Jaune admitted with a small laugh, resting one hand on his hip while the other rubbed the back of his neck above his armor's collar. "Though if you're so upset about the 'dodgy' part, you probably don't want to meet my mentor."

The banter was interrupted by multiple short whines from behind Jaune; he craned his neck, and took note of the three door guards aiming down their rifles.

The noise was reciprocated and multiplied tenfold from behind the commander, where dozens of Vale police and SWAT officers leveled their weapons at the downed commander and the three guards.

"Lower your weapons!" the commander barked to his last surviving fighters. "Cover that window and don't let the cops inside!" The burly Faunus drew himself back up to his full height, rolled his neck, and cracked his knuckles loudly. "The soldier and I are going to settle this between us. _Do not interfere!_ "

"That goes for you lot as well," Jaune called across the street, his faceplate swiveling back and sweeping across the front rank of enraptured officers. "You people have already done enough today," he added in a low growl – more to himself than anything, but loudly enough that several of the onlookers took note and twitched uncertainly.

Then the two juggernauts were leaping at each other again, fists outstretched and ready to exchange devastating right crosses.

Jaune had already taken one of those in the last few minutes, and he wasn't particularly enthusiastic to accept another. As he entered the commander's range, the Legionnaire twisted at the waist and shifted his fist into an open palm that reached out and guided the incoming punch to brush across his front; he then carried the twist into a full spin around his opponent's flank, accumulating enough momentum in the process to drive a harsh jab into the Faunus's kidney.

The Fang grunted, but allowed the motion to guide his own body into a spin; coming out of the turn, he lashed out with a spade-sized hand to grab at Jaune's helmet, intent on grappling him in to hammer at his defenses from point-blank range. Jaune ducked beneath the grab, pushed the arm aside again, and took advantage of his low stance to drive a jab into the commander's hip, causing him to falter.

The exchange continued as such for several moments, every attack and defense launched from well within arm's reach. The Faunus committed his full size and power to every blow, so much so that even an incomplete deflection magnified the searing ache in Jaune's wrists from a mere fraction of the sheer force.

Fortunately, his deflections were successful more often than not, and were followed up immediately by his own short jackhammer blows to the commander's organs and joints. His training with Winter was finally paying off: For the first time in his short and rich combat history, Jaune was the faster fighter, and he was using every iota of that speed in tandem with his respectable power and control to rapidly wear down his opponent's Aura and defenses.

Finally, his golden opportunity arrived. The Faunus released a shout of frustration, and loosed a haymaker that was fit to remove Jaune's head from his shoulders; the soldier responded immediately, diving low inside of the commander's guard and jamming his shoulder into the bear's midriff before shoving him off sharply and sending the giant into a drunken stumble.

A steel-toed boot caught the back of the commander's knee, dropping him with into a kneeling position. A sweeping hammer blow caught the side of his head, and he was sent into an awkward spin that ended with him flat on his back, staring up into the sky as his vision swam.

Jaune stepped closer, intent on keeping his opponent down until he capitulated; but as soon as he crossed into arm's reach, the downed commander's hand snapped out with reptilian speed, and captured his ankle in a vice grip.

The grip yanked inward, and the soldier was suddenly flat on his back, a Grimm-masked face looming over him as several hundred pounds of muscle and adrenaline-fueled hatred pressed into his diaphragm and fumbled to find purchase around his throat.

"Just lay down and _die,_ you _bastard!_ " the Faunus hissed venomously, spittle spattering across the blank metal faceplate as fingers finally circled his neck above his collar and _squeezed_.

Jaune tried to snarl back defiantly, only to find that precious oxygen had been replaced by mounting pressure from the blood in his head that was unable to move anywhere else. His own gloves scraped and pried at the arms holding him captive, but found no give whatsoever in the iron grip.

He was running out of time, he realized, now fighting desperately to control his shallow breathing as the rest of his body bucked against the hold to try and achieve a position with better leverage. He twisted at the waist to allow one leg to swing up and around; on the first drop, the heel of his boot found the small of his opponent's back, but still yielded no quarter.

The second swing, however, finally allowed Jaune to hook his leg around his assailant's lower back. Pressing his entire body up with all of his strength caused him to roll over on his shoulder, until the commander was now on the ground, with Jaune looming over him.

Even through this, the ursine brawler's grip barely faltered, and darkness was creeping into the edges of Jaune's vision. The soldier raised an armor-encased knee and jammed it down into the commander's diaphragm, and began mercilessly laying punches into his face.

There was no more form or elegance to be found in this fight. It was now a struggle for survival – two men at war with one another in body and spirit, with the mutual understanding that to show weakness or mercy before surrender was to invite a swift and messy death by prying fingers and hammering fists.

The commander's mask fractured under the onslaught, followed shortly after a sharp, sickening crack that indicated a broken nose. Rivulets of blood and phlegm streamed from the Faunus's mouth and nose, and several teeth were knocked loose and subsequently lost in the fray.

Finally, just as darkness was about to overtake Jaune's vision, the death grip on his neck loosened, and then fell away limply. His opponent's head rested on the asphalt, which was now cracked from the kinetic energy of his blows that had originally been translated through the shield of Aura, before that too had given way. Unseen eyes stared through swollen lids and a broken mask into the pink morning sky; the only remaining indication of life being the faint rise and fall of his barrel chest beneath a dirtied white ballistic vest.

With great effort from burning muscles and pained airways, Jaune slouched to his feet and stepped slowly away from the White Fang commander's defeated form. Several SWAT offers broke away from the front ranks of the cordon and tentatively approached the prone body, shying away from the impassive form of the last giant left standing.

* * *

The soldier's gaze lingered on his former opponent for a while, until he finally turned to face the three remaining gunmen, and regarded them with his arms hanging limp at his sides.

"Lay down your weapons," he called to them, "Your commander and your comrades are defeated. The fight is over; surrender and you'll be taken into custody and given fair trials like the rest of them."

"You were the one that promised a peaceful solution!" one of them snarled back, gesturing with his carbine towards the shattered window. "We have no reason to trust _anything_ that you say!"

"You're right on both counts," Jaune agreed tiredly, his stance unchanged. "So you have no good reason to believe me when I say that I never wanted this; but that choice was taken from me, and now the best that I can do is offer you my word that all of you will be treated fairly and impartially."

He raised one arm vaguely and gestured towards them with an open, upturned palm, fingers splayed. "You can take either take me at my word," he then gestured aside towards the officers behind him, "Or you can resist, and die meaninglessly where you stand."

The White Fang survivors glanced amongst themselves, towards him, and towards the officers and snipers that had them in their sights. Finally, with matching scowls, they discharged their weapons' power cells and let them clatter to the concrete before raising arms above their heads in capitulation.

The dam broke, and dozens of officers swarmed around the guards, some restraining them while even more moved through the shop door and the broken window to secure the interior. A SWAT officer moved to stand alongside Jaune and craned his neck towards the blank mask inquisitively.

"The hostages are inside," Jaune reported in soft, clipped words. "One young girl, unharmed last I found her; and the store owner, who is unharmed for the most part, but should probably be checked over by a medic." The officer nodded and opened his mouth to speak; but Jaune was already turning and ambling back towards the cordon.

His mouth was set in an absent frown as the crowd parted around his path towards the command trailer. Winter materialized out of the sea and fell into step beside him, matching his sedate pace with a look of concern.

"Who gave the order?" he inquired distantly.

"The police commander, Paul Umber," she replied evenly. "You can't touch him, Jack. Our position is tenuous enough as it is-"

"I'm just going to put his head through a squad car windscreen," he interjected lazily. He then contemplated his own words for a moment. "Maybe two. Just until I get the point across."

"You mean until you feel better?"

"No; in that case, I'd have to put him through a Bullhead windscreen. From the outside. While it's flying."

He stopped involuntarily mid-stride; glancing down, he noted with detached annoyance the small black snowflake glyph that was currently gluing the sole of his boot to the street.

Winter stopped just ahead of him, turning completely to face him and placing a gloved hand on his shoulder pauldron. "Get your head on straight, Corporal," she ordered quietly with a lidded and unimpressed stare.

"I refuse to silently abide this _travesty_ , ma'am," he drawled back acidly, drawing on his acquired vocabulary to fully communicate his displeasure. "I don't care if this was caused by incompetence or blatant sabotage, because either way, heads are going to _roll_."

"And I promise you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that the responsible parties are censured for their actions," Winter hissed back, "But as it is, Jack, you are _done_. If you go in there swinging and spitting fire, any and all credibility and goodwill that we have accumulated from this incident will evaporate into thin air. All three of them are fully expecting you to come back and do just that, and I am telling you we cannot afford to speak out in anger – I'm not even sure if you would even be allowed to speak in your own _defense_."

The two stood at odds for some time, Jaune's own willpower holding him back more so than Winter's hand or her glyph. They both recognized it, even with his guise of exhaustion; and finally, her eyes softened, and she released her Semblance with a light, tired sigh. He remained in place and continued looking back at her expectantly.

"You might not like the means, Jaune," she spoke softly, "But you achieved the end. Take your victory and walk away."

"A pyrrhic victory like this is no victory at all," he growled, "The battle's ended, but the war is only going to drag on longer because of it."

"You are correct," she closed her eyes and admitted, "But this is Vale. The war here is fought with words as much as action; and it is not one that you will win as you are now."

The material of his gloves creaked as his fists clenched; his breathing was slow and shallow even as blood roared in his ears.

And then he met her pleading gaze once more, and everything - his rage, his indignation, and the last dredges of adrenaline - deserted him.

Jaune sighed and shook his head in defeat. Winter patted his shoulder once and withdrew her hand.

"Let's get this over with," he muttered, reluctantly squaring himself upright. She nodded in agreement, and he fell into step beside her as they crossed the remaining distance to the VPD command unit.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

The Specialists found the VPD triumvirate in the same position as when they'd left. All three turned to regard the two Atlesians - Carmen with the same naked intrigue, Paul with carefully controlled apprehension, and Reagan with casual impassiveness.

"Twenty-seven minutes," the Chief finally declared, folding his arms across his chest and nodding in approval, "Not a bad runtime for resolving a hostage crisis. You made a promise, and you certainly delivered, son."

Jaune's faceplate stared back for a long moment. The brushed steel plate sported several fresh scratches, as well as a faint indentation on one side where his opponent had tried and failed to deliver a knockout punch.

He wanted to be indignant. He wanted to curse and rant, to call the people in front of him out for every perceived and evident failure of the operation that would have been his victory to seize if not for their hubris and incompetence.

But in the end, getting shafted in the field by the upper echelons was nothing new. It had gotten Jack into trouble many times before, and it looked like that same theme would be recurring for Jaune well into the future.

So, deciding that it was worth neither the wasted breath, nor the risk of speaking out of line, Jaune nodded back to the Chief in silent acknowledgement.

Reagan at least had the decency to acknowledge the elephant on the street. "I do believe that Commander Umber has a few words to offer in regards to the operation's setback," he gestured a hand towards Paul, who started with a weak cough.

"Yes, the… Unfortunate miscommunication, which led to the deployment of knockout gas in the middle of your action." The Police Commander tugged at the collar of his uniform and muttered something indecipherable under his breath. "That was on me; I set my technicians going on that a few hours ago, and forgot that they were even at it when you two showed up. Sorry about that."

Jaune could see in his peripheral vision that Winter's arm was tensed and ready to reach over and grasp his shoulder.

He still had the baton sheathed at his wrist. A flick of his wrist would release the battered bludgeon into his grasp, and a short wind-up would send it flying head-first with enough force to knock the man on his ass and _possibly_ fracture his nose-

Jaune gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. ' _Get your head on straight, Corporal,'_ he repeated Winter's earlier words like a mantra. ' _You're not a violent psychopath, you just haven't had your coffee yet.'_

"So long as we're not in for a repeat in the future, then I'd say that it's water under the bridge, sir," he finally choked out; the synthesizer covered up what little rage managed to slip out.

Then a revelation snapped to the forefront of his mind, and brought a small, twisted grin to his lips.

"Just so that we're all on the same page, however, I _will_ need to document the incident in my formal report," Jaune added casually. Commander Umber's budding look of relief faltered, and his complexion started to pale. "And, given the current uncertainty of our standing here in Vale, Specialist Schnee and I will also need to file copies of our reports with not only the Vale Police Department, but also Atlas High Command, and Headmaster Ozpin as well - just to be cover all of our bases."

Winter started imperceptibly at her own name; once she had fully processed Jaune's words, however, it took all her years of discipline to keep from beaming with pride at her pupil.

Paul's head whipped about as he looked to either Carmen or Reagan for support. The detective's smile glowed with insincere apology; while the Chief took a deep breath, and exhaled with a short chuff of resigned laughter.

"I guess that's only to be expected under these circumstances, isn't it?"

Carmen nodded sagely in agreement, and Paul lowered his head in defeat.

"In any case, I am certain that you all have other matters to attend to in closing out this incident," Winter observed. "We will be in touch later on to finalize arrangements for access to the ongoing investigation."

"Very well," Reagan nodded in acquiescence, "I can have one of my officers drive you both to the airship terminal-"

A deep rumble reverberated through the street beneath them, and was followed a scant moment later by a distant cacophony of ruptured earth, shrieking steel, and crumbling masonry. Smoke started billowing into the sky from a location several blocks away.

The police radio band lit up, and Jaune's heart stilled.

" _ **We're under attack! The prisoner convoy is being attacked by White Fang insurgents! Car Two-Eight was just blown sky-high by an explosive device! Multiple officers down! WE NEED BACKUP**_ _ **NOW!**_ "

A black glyph materialized beneath Jaune's feet; it shattered almost instantly under a greater force of willpower and Aura, and the Legionnaire took off at a dead sprint towards the sound of conflict, heedless of the cries for caution and consideration that petered off in his wake as he parted the sea of uniforms through sheer presence.

The SWAT team members that lingered and apparently awaited him at the edge of the sea became taller, darker forms; familiar faces all hidden behind the same blank steel mask as crass jabs and bleak humor were bandied about, accompanied by gestures with the large black battle rifles and machine guns that each man cradled in his arms.

' _Same shit, different day - right Jack?'_ a familiar voice that was not his own echoed through his consciousness with an audible grin.

"Different time, different station, same old shit," Jaune agreed aloud, accepting his shotgun and equipment belt with a nod from one of the men. He cinched the belt around his waist, drew a magazine from a pouch, fitted it into the mag well of his weapon, and slapped the bolt catch to send the first shell home.

"Let's go for a walk, gentlemen."

* * *

 **End Chapter 4**

* * *

 **Author's Note** : **I'll admit, I seriously dragged my heels on this one towards the end; but, I think that it turned out alright after I had that extra time to stew on it.**

 **Next time: Jaune takes an unplanned stroll down memory lane through a hail of gunfire, and we meet the new player in the local White Fang who wants to revolutionize the way that insurrections are fought in the Kingdom of Vale.**

 _ **(It won't take as long as this one, I swear.)**_

 **See you all in the next one.**

 **-Knightmare Frame Razgriz**


	6. Chapter 5

– _To Serve With Honor –_

" _SCATTER!"_

The cry came from one of the police officers before Jaune could utter it, as he and a dozen SWAT officers stared up at a pair of White Fang gunmen that were taking aim with shoulder-launched missiles from a partly-destroyed second-floor balcony.

While the Valeans shot off in any direction that their feet could carry them - even into streams of gunfire - Jaune's shotgun snapped up, and half a dozen slugs punched through the air in rapid succession.

Five of them impacted the building in a shower of powdered masonry; the sixth slammed into the armored midriff of a missileer. While the slug had lost the kinetic energy needed to penetrate the target's ballistic vest, the force was still akin to a suckerpunch concentrated into an area the size of a fingertip; which was more than enough to make the fighter double over in pain at the very same instant that he pulled the trigger on his launcher.

The balcony disappearing in a ball of fire quickly became an afterthought as machine gun fire erupted from down the avenue, turning a stunned policeman and the sedan behind him into so much indistinguishable gore and scrap metal.

Others wisely scrambled for cover out of the street, only to be horrified and dismayed as their own concealment suffered the same fate as the first car under the withering enfilade of heavy machine gun fire.

As several streams of deadly accurate rifle fire were added to the mix, Jaune could only watch with growing dismay as several more officers were caught in the open and eviscerated; and under these conditions, it was almost forgivable that discipline amongst the survivors immediately began to crumble.

A fist-sized portion of the wall that constituted his cover disintegrated from a stray high-caliber round, and the Specialist growled in frustration. _Almost_ forgivable, if it wasn't so damned irritating.

Glancing around his position, Jaune took note of a man in the alley across the street from his position, kneeling and holding his hands over his head and whimpering every time the sounds of gunfire peaked. He also noted the twin bars of silver on the man's lapels, and failed to restrain a groan of frustration.

' _Damned spineless Valeans…'_ he couldn't help but grit internally, only to pause and chuckle bitterly at the irony of the thought.

 _Legio Patria Nostra_ \- the Legion is Our Fatherland, the maxim of the Atlas Foreign Legion. Two and a half years, and he'd already discarded his birth nation and unconsciously accepted sole citizenship in one of the deadliest fighting forces in Remnant's history.

And now here he was, scoffing at the cowardice of his former countrymen, in the face of violence that they'd likely never even imagined, much less seen before.

' _Well, I guess it's just up to me to show them how the Legion takes care of business.'_

Jaune glanced down at his belt, noting the colors of the shells peeking out of the top of each magazine. He thumbed the release latch on his weapon, and adeptly swapped the half-full mag for a fresh one, slapping it home and then smacking the receiver with the heel of his palm to snap the bolt forward.

The machine guns that the White Fang had stationed up ahead were clearly older systems, as they still used cased munitions; judging from the report and rate of fire, Jaune might even go so far as to say that they were Mantlese general-purpose machine guns from the Great War.

While the autocannons and caseless weapons used by most modern military groups had higher muzzle velocities and rates of fire, and were more cost-effective, their projectiles had considerably less mass and stopping power; as such, it took more ammunition to eliminate a target, especially one with heavier armor or an Aura. The higher rate of fire was meant to compensate for this deficiency, but ultimately wasn't quite as efficient at the task as some older weapons with cased munitions, which had stopping power in spades, and could dish out damage to armor and Aura alike through the sheer momentum of each round.

So, even with his own combat armor and - admittedly unreliable - Aura, Jaune wasn't feeling particularly inclined to try and tank a round to see if, or how much, it hurt.

" **Smoke out!"** he called, yanking a cylindrical smoke grenade straight off of the pin on his armor and hooking it around the corner into the middle of the street ahead. A few other officers must've gotten the idea, because more grenades followed from various locations a few moments later - some smoke, along with a few tear gas grenades that began to spew translucent smoke which drifted towards the barricade.

Jaune ducked back out of sight to allow the smoke to propagate, and to psych himself up. Clenching his shotgun tightly to his chest plate, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths while counting down from five; when his mental count ended, his eyes snapped open, and one hand went to his wrist to toggle his visor's thermal camera.

With the world now bathed in shades of red and blue, he spun on his heel and broke from the cover into the smoke, high-velocity rifle rounds hissing all around him, and much heavier bullets snapping past.

Eight humanoid red blooms waited behind the cars and debris at the barricade, some feeling secure enough in the obscurity of the smoke to stand fully upright and fire their weapons.

The others still in cover were the first to realize their comrades' mistake as tight clusters of buckshot burst from the smoke and took out three of their number in quick succession, either bursting their ballistic vests and making mincemeat of everything else, or catching them in the Aura with enough force to send them flying back.

Those Fang that turned back towards the source of the gunfire quickly wished they hadn't, as a crimson and grey behemoth materialized from the smoke on their right flank with a massive and deadly-looking shotgun leveled at them. The machine gunners were either unaware of the situation or unable to traverse their weapons towards the new threat as the sole survivor on that side of the barricade had his chest pulped by another shell.

Jaune hastily clamored across the hood of one of the cars and turned to face the four fighters on the other end of the barricade; the closest fighter jerked in surprise and spun towards him, spraying his rifle on fully automatic in a panic. Most of the shots went wild; but when a few caught Jaune's Aura and started to brush his chest plate, he loosed three rounds at the attacker, turning the Faunus's lower leg, forearm, and then his head into ground meat in rapid succession.

Two of the last three Fang paled and also started panic-spraying in his direction, earning a volley of buckshot apiece for their troubles; one was killed instantly, while the other was sent stumbling and then falling into the last fighter, who had panicked and dropped his weapon.

The pair fell over in a heap of tangle limbs; when they both looked up, the red and grey monster was towering over them, the barrel of its weapon centered between their heads as it kicked their weapons away. Both were quick to raise their empty hands and blubber out a panicked surrender.

Jaune sighed and glanced behind him, only to start when a body stirred and started to rise. He turned fully and thundered towards the recovering gunman, crossing the distance between them in a blink. A boot lashed out and sent the rifle flying from the Fang's weak grip; the Specialist firmly grasped the pistol grip and forestock of his shotgun, and then slammed the butt of the weapon into the startled fighter's face. Aura and mask alike shattered under the blow, and the Faunus slumped backwards bonelessly and didn't move again.

After once again surveying the area with bated breath, and finding no further movement, Jaune heaved a deeper sigh and disengaged his thermal visor as the smoke began to clear. He turned his unfiltered attention towards the box truck, where the machine guns had fallen silent a few seconds ago.

' _Either they've both run out of ammo at the same time, or they heard the commotion and aren't sure what to do now,'_ he mused as he crept towards the doors at the back of the truck, swapping his empty magazine for his partial of slugs.

The latch had apparently been relocated to the inside of the doors when the truck was modified; he banged the buttstock of his weapon on the middle of one of them deliberately, and then leveled the weapon and took a few steps back. " **Come out of the vehicle unarmed with your hands above you head!"** he boomed.

" _Fuck you, you fucking human scum!"_ a muffled male voice called back at a strained pitch. " _If we're going down, then we're taking as many of you bastards with us as we can! For the glory of the White Fang!"_

Jaune shook his head and took aim at one of the hinges, but paused when the vehicle started to rock on its axles; he strained his hearing, and detected faint sounds of a struggle inside.

" _Don't listen to this fucking lunatic!"_ another panicked voice called a moment later, " _Like hell I'm gonna die for this shit! Fu- fuck_ off _already, Max!"_

" _FUCK YOU, Morty, you fucking cowardly piece of shit!"_

Jaune had heard enough. He fired at the upper hinge of one door, the brittle metal joint shattering from the slug, as did the lower hinge immediately after. He followed with shots at the upper and lower frame at the seam of the two doors, where he guessed that the latching bars entered the frame; and once the hinges on the other side were taken care of, the conjoined doors groaned and teetered precariously before falling outward and landing at his feet.

Inside, the two machine gunners had apparently been grappling for control of a rifle, but had stopped when the shots had started; and when the doors fell out and they were faced with a metal giant pointing a wicked-looking gun at them both, one took advantage of the other's surprise and gave him a swift punch in the mouth. The blow dropped him, and the victor of the brawl's hands shot into the air, in an oddly amusing amalgam of victory and surrender.

"Please don't kill me," Morty the Faunus - avian, from the hair-like coat of brown feathers adorning his head - whimpered softly.

" **Kick the rifle away, drag your friend out of the truck, and then get on the ground,"** Jaune intoned sternly in reply. Morty glanced around in a panic, and upon spotting the discarded rifle beside his foot, kicked it out of the open doorway. Jaune approached and, keeping his weapon trained on the pair, slowly bent down and retrieved the weapon before backing away and allowing the gunner to toss his unconscious comrade out of the truck. Morty followed quickly, eyeing Jaune's mask in terror as he jumped down from the truck and all but collapsed onto his face, his hands coming to rest atop the back of his head.

" **Smart man,"** Jaune noted aloud with a tone of measured indifference. " **I'm looking at eight bodies here, not counting you two. Am I missing anyone?"**

"N-n-no, I don't think so," Morty stuttered into the concrete, only to flinch when Jaune tugged back the bolt and then allowed it to snap forward audibly. "We've been stuck in the back of that fucking truck since we got here! There were six guys in the back with us, and the driver and the Sergeant up front! That's all I know, I swear!" he rattled off in a panic.

" **You'd better start remembering the rest of your story, Morty,"** Jaune did his best to growl; the synthesizer handled the rest, and Morty whimpered. " **I'm sure the VPD are going to have a nice** _ **long**_ **chat with you and your friends."**

The Specialist turned to face the rest of the street, where the smoke had mostly cleared, and a few officers were poking their heads up. " **Keep your heads on a swivel and get up here!** _ **With a purpose, people! MOVE!"**_

Officers started to slink from cover, a few SWAT men feeling confident enough to comply and jog to the barricade with their weapons ready.

The rest of the group soon followed, and within the next minute, the VPD contingent had occupied the barricade, and were policing up the dead and surviving Fang and their weapons.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

"Captain Hallern's reporting the successful capture of a barricade on Seventh, along with five White Fang captured alive of the ten manning the position," one of the two radio operators reported neutrally, though the man's satisfaction was given away by a small grin at the corner of his lips.

Winter suppressed a sigh of relief, turning back to the shatterproof window of the Command, Control and Communications (C3) Bullhead. The aircraft was half again the size of the standard Bullheads operated by Beacon for rapid personnel deployment, and contained a suite of sensors and displays manned by three extra crewmen, and seating besides for half a dozen passengers.

That capacity was currently only taken up by herself, Chief Reagan, and Commander Umber; Carmen, the Chief Inspector, seemed to have evaporated into thin air around the time that the police response had been mobilized. Reagan had waved it off, stating the the crimson-clad Inspector was simply "getting on top of the situation."

Speaking of the Chief of Police. "I've got to hand it to you, Winter; your man's really on his game down there," Reagan admitted somewhat bashfully. "Only fifty percent casualties and objective success against ten suspects with military-grade armament. You've certainly trained him well."

"In this case, I had nothing to do with it except unlocking his Aura," Winter replied dryly, turning to offer the Chief a gimlet eye. "Specialist Amsel spent the better part of two years in urban combat in one of Mantle's largest cities. Giving him a trump such as a personal force field only served to elevate an experienced Legionnaire from a skilled combatant into a veritable juggernaut."

"I guess introducing Aura to the equation after he's already learned to fight without it would probably open up a whole new skill set to a clever shocktrooper," Reagan acknowledged with a thoughtful nod. The older man then turned back to the radio operator. "How are we looking on our side of that fight?"

"Eight casualties; six heavily wounded, two KIA," the operator answered gravely. "The Fang apparently armored a box truck and stuck a pair of old heavy machine guns inside; they tore up several officers and a lot of property before the Specialist intervened."

"How long have they been sitting on that kind of hardware, do you think…?" Paul Umber trailed off with a disgruntled sigh as Reagan squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"And what're our boys up to now?" the Chief asked without opening his eyes.

"Captain Hallern is holding at the barricade to police the Fang and treat the wounded; but it sounds like the Specialist took most of SWAT and a few other skilled shooters and is pressing on to the ambush site."

"Hallern's not happy about that, is he?" Umber asked redundantly.

"The Captain's explicit orders were to hold and wait for additional SWAT and military support; but the Specialist argued for a swift and aggressive counterassault to prevent further casualties at the site, and then asked for volunteers," the radioman related diligently.

"Hallern is in the right of it," Umber declared immediately, "None of those guys are trained or equipped to handle a fight of this magnitude against well-armed militants."

"And you think that the White Fang are particularly well- _trained_ militants?" Winter interjected, disbelief leaking into her tone. Umber and Reagan both turned fully in their seats to regard her - the former with distaste, and the latter with measured consideration.

"They may have brought better equipment to this engagement, and switched up their playbook in Vale," she continued unabashedly, "But from the information you've presented to me thus far, I can find no indication that these doctrinal changes were prepared in advance. They might have a new commander who knows this style of warfare; but whoever that is, they would have arrived very recently, and had little to no time to do more than provide basic instruction and demonstration for the tactics that they've put into practice here."

"That doesn't change the fact that _my_ men have had _no_ preparation or instruction in _urban warfare_ ," Commander Umber ground out impatiently. "That's what we have a _military_ for."

"Vale has a _defense force_ ," Winter shot back, unable to stop the condescension that bled into the words. "They may be more heavily armed and equipped; but in this day and age, the VDF is trained and suited towards combating the Grimm above all else. Bringing them to bear against the White Fang in tight quarters would simply result in more collateral damage than we've already seen."

"Then what about Huntsmen, _Specialist?_ " Paul shot back, his countenance coloring as he was unable to refute her argument and moved to another tack. "We had Glynda Goodwitch herself on site not ten minutes ago. What's stopping us from holding off for ten more to get her back here so that we can wrap this up cleanly?"

The cabin fell silent, and even the radio operators glanced over their shoulders to shoot incredulous glances at the Commander. Umber, for his part, grew increasingly less sure of himself as Winter silently regarded him with irate amusement.

Finally, Reagan sighed and reached over, cuffing Paul Umber across the back of his head with a spade-sized hand. Umber bit off a yelp of pain and confusion and twisted around to face the Chief, who simply gestured back to Winter.

When Paul finally looked back at the Specialist, she had her saber out and resting across her lap, running a gloved hand over the length of the blade as she continued staring back at the Commander with all due disdain.

Paul finally got the point; his weathered face turned crimson, and he tried to shrink into himself.

"Chief," one of the radio operators piped up, "We've got images from the first aerial reconnaissance pass. You're gonna want to see this." Reagan pushed himself out of his seat and shuffled across the cabin to stoop down behind the operator's chair, peering over the woman's shoulder at the display.

Something on it must've deeply unsettled him, because the normally unflappable man paled noticeably. " _Holy shit…"_ he whispered audibly.

Winter stowed her weapon at her hip, and shuffled over to stand beside Reagan; the Chief sidestepped and allowed her to lean in and examine the image - in particular, the figure with a rather iconic color scheme that was standing in the middle of the street.

By the time she consciously registered her own body's movements, her Scroll was pressed to her ear, Jaune's number dialed and ringing.

The call connected after three rings. " _I'm a block out from the ambush site; are you coming or not?"_ the younger Specialist's tone was focused and clipped.

"You need to withdraw with your group and find a staging area, _now_ ," Winter responded hurriedly.

" _What? No, I can hear small arms fire from my location! We need to get there before the rest of the survivors are wiped out and the Fang get away-!"_

"Jack, _listen to me_ ," she interjected, a bit of panic bleeding through, "You shouldn't try to take that location alone. The Valean White Fang have a new commander, and it's-"

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

He surveyed the remnants of his opposition impassively, pacing up and down the line of face-down and kneeling Vale police officers with his palm resting comfortably on the pommel of the sheathed blade at his hip.

These humans had spirit, he admitted candidly to himself. Those lying flat were the ones that were too injured to resist; the rest of them, even those decorated with various gunshot and blade wounds, met his gaze evenly as he stared down at them through his mask, his mouth set in a grim line.

Then again, he didn't expect the humans in Vale to have the same awareness of his reputation as those in Atlas and Mantle; so perhaps their bravado stemmed from simple ignorance.

That was fine; a man with a bit of steel in his spine died just the same as one without.

An unarmed scout - one of the men that had been recommended specifically by the Lieutenant, he recalled distantly - came to a halt at the far end of the line, bent over and out of breath. He waited for the scout to collect himself.

"Commander Taurus," the young Faunus finally huffed, "Our barricade to the east has been overtaken, and a force of VPD officers is approaching our location on foot."

"I didn't expect them to organize such an able response so quickly," Adam mused, still eyeing the captured policemen. "Or is it that our men at the barricade weren't up to the task?"

"They put up a strong defense and killed a lot of cops," the scout righted himself and snapped, only to shrink back when Adam shot him a sideways glance. "I-it wasn't our men, sir," he amended quietly, "The VPD, they had something leading the attack. Some kind of soldier, a giant in grey and red armor; it tore into the blockade, shrugged off their bullets and killed everyone that didn't have Aura. It's now leading the group that's approaching."

Adam's held fell back, and he stared absently at the rooftops as he processed the information. His fingers drifted down on Wilt and curled around the leather-wrapped hilt; he perceived a sharp flinch from the scout at the action.

' _It's not unreasonable for a Huntsman to have arrived on the scene after that standoff,'_ he mused, his fingertips drumming against the hilt. ' _But grey and red armor… Surely they wouldn't have brought one of_ those _monsters here? Did they find out that I was coming from those Specialists? But if so, why is there only one of_ them _, instead of a whole squad or one of the Specialists themselves?'_

"It just doesn't add up…" Adam muttered with a small grimace. He turned to face the scout, who remained standing nervously at what he probably thought was outside of the range of his blade. "Evacuate the men that we've rescued first," he ordered, "We'll have achieved our objective here if the humans fail to recover their original prisoners. Get them out using Route Charlie; the rest of our forces will leave using Route Delta shortly after."

"Y-yes sir," the scout stammered and scurried away. Adam stepped away from the prisoners, and swept his eyes across the line to meet each of their gazes in turn.

"For civilian "officers of the peace," all of you put forth an admirable resistance in the face of overwhelming opposition," he intoned, pacing at a slower, more deliberate cadence. "For that, you have all earned my respect."

One of the kneeling officers coughed violently, and spat a glob of blood and phlegm at Adam's feet as he passed. "Is the respect of a terrorist and a murderer supposed to mean something to us?" the fit, grey-haired man grunted, tilting his head to meet Adam's gaze evenly.

Wilt and Blush clicked.

The air fell still, and those present looked to Adam with wide eyes.

An instant later, Adam withdrew his sword from the officer's chest, allowing the man a final gasp before he collapsed forward to the pavement.

Some of the man's colleagues cried out in dismay and rage. Others fell into a resigned silence, and one began to weep hopelessly, bent over with the crown of his head resting on the street.

"It means that I take no pleasure in carrying out this necessary evil of our mission," Adam replied to the air. He flicked his wrist, and splatters of blood detached from the crimson blade to paint the street.

"As a matter of fact, I feel compelled to thank you for your sacrifice, officers," he continued coolly, taking a single step forward to stand before the next man in line. "Your deaths today will serve as a message, and a catalyst; you will be remembered as heroes by your people, as well as ours. As the first casualties of this war, your blood and bodies will become a part of the foundation for the new world that will be born from the fires and ashes of our Revolution."

The man in front of him stared up at Adam's mask defiantly, but the terror still showed on his face. This was a wise man.

The muscles in his arm tensed, and the air stilled.

The report of a heavy firearm ripped through the stillness, alongside a heavy slug that snapped past the side of Adam's face.

As the report faded, there was silence, but no further shots. He heard his men raise their weapons after a moment of hesitation - but he raised his hand into the air, telling them to wait.

" **Adam Taurus."**

' _Ah. So it_ is _one of_ them _.'_

The static beneath the synthesized baritone assaulted his eardrums, but he had long since grown insensate to the sound. The fighters around him couldn't say the same; many shuddered, either from the offensive noise, or the figure from which it originated.

Two meters tall, clad in a grey uniform and armor with crimson trim. Black boots, black gloves, and a smooth, gleaming gunmetal mask that betrayed nothing and glinted in the early morning light. No hint of human skin to be found; and a large-bore, magazine-fed weapon in its hands, leveled at him with a small curl of smoking wafting from the barrel.

" **Put your weapons on the ground and step away from the officers,"** it continued, never wavering.

Morale was a tenuous thing. And as a dozen armed and armored SWAT officers fanned out behind the giant, he could feel it slipping from his men, like a tangible sensation - like grains of sand trickling from between the fingers of his closed fist.

Adam met _it's_ masked gaze with his own, and took a small step to the side, away from the prisoner at his feet.

"You have me at something of a disadvantage, I must admit," he called out, twisting Wilt in his grip until the tip rested on the inner edge of Blush. "You appear to be familiar with me; unfortunately, I can't say the same about you." The blade slid into its sheath, connecting fully with a sharp snap.

" **I'm sad to say that we're already well acquainted with one another, Mister Taurus,"** it boomed. " **I am Specialist Jonathan Amsel, of the Atlas Military."**

 _A weak, gravelly voice grated through his mind, accompanied by an image of a broken young man slumped over and tied to a chair in an unlit room._

" _Jonathan… Amsel… Legionnaire Second Class. Serial number… Friedrich… Ludwig… Seven four, two niner seven… Eight, niner, six, six."_

His lips curled into an easy smile.

"Jonathan Amsel," Adam repeated, "As I live and breathe. I must not have recognized you because you're much more verbose than in our previous encounters; though I suppose that the uniform doesn't help much, either."

" **Put your weapons on the ground, Taurus,"** the Legionnaire repeated with a growl. " **You're to be placed under arrest for murder and acts of terrorism against the Kingdom of Vale."**

"I'm not going to do that, Specialist," Adam replied, his fingers wrapping loosely around the barrel of Blush. "As a matter of fact, I'll tell you what I'm going to do."

His Aura began flooding the chamber of Blush, causing the entire weapon to rattle. He moved his free hand deliberately across his stomach, and it came to rest on Wilt, ready to draw.

Even beneath all of the armor, he could see the Legionnaire tense up.

"I'm going to _kill_ your officers," He growled through gritted teeth, concentrating on the power building around his blade, "And my men and I are going to leave to fight another day."

Wisps of crimson curled around the edges of his vision.

" _ **TAKE COVER!"**_ Amsel roared. But while the Valeans readily complied, diving every which way to seek solid cover; the armored giant instead thundered straight towards him, firing slug after slug.

Unlike the smattering of return fire from Adam's own troops, the Legionnaire's rounds were deadly accurate; but it was already far too late. The slugs bounced or deflected off of the brilliant red Aura that seemed to emanate from the swordsman's every pore.

"Now _**DIE!"**_

Wilt parted from Blush, and for a brief moment, the world before him was engulfed by a tidal wave of crimson petals, and an intangible blade of energy that cut through everything it touched.

And through it, Adam watched the Legionnaire take a knee in the face of impending doom, fold his arms over his bowed helmet, and disappear within a ball of brilliant white light.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

It felt like a ball of flame encompassing his entire being.

' _I guess that's one benefit of having the actual experience of being on fire,'_ Jaune contemplated as his Aura flexed under the pressure of Taurus's attack. ' _It sucked then, and it sucks just as much now.'_

He cracked an eyelid, and the world outside was warm, claustrophobic, and pink.

A hysterical and not even remotely mature giggle filled his mind. Death was literal millimeters from his face, and yet here he was tittering at his own anatomical innuendos; because after a year in hell and another with Winter Schnee, Jaune Arc's mind was a fucked up place, and the fact that this shit was somehow _funny_ was a good thing, in some twisted manner of speaking.

A minuscule crack formed in the hard light in front of his face, and all hilarity was instantaneously vaporized.

' _No.'_

The crack formed a single branch. Jaune forgot how to breathe.

' _Not like this.'_

Two more branches. His heart had stopped.

" _Please,"_ he prayed.

It went unanswered.

The brilliant white light of his Aura shattered - and for a brief moment, all he knew was red and hellfire.

And then an instant later, it was over. The last of the energy washed over him, followed shortly by a strong breeze that eventually made his filters cognizant of the smoke rising from his gauntlets.

Jaune finally drew a great breath of glorious living air, and allowed himself to run the gambit of thanking every deity that he could name.

The sound of rapid footfalls interrupted his praise, and he rolled backwards and narrowly avoided decapitation.

"I can't say that I've ever had a target weather one of my strikes before," his assailant called out conversationally - the voice grew closer towards the end, and Jaune instinctively charged forward and threw his shoulder out. A blade scraped against his shoulder pauldron, but did probably didn't do more than tear the fabric cover; regardless, he hastily broke off his blind charge.

He fell back a few steps and drew himself up, finally catching sight of Taurus standing before him with his blade sheathed and at the ready. It took much of his experience and conditioning to hold back from roaring and charging the terrorist.

He reverted to his old standby - levity. The lower portion of the face plate covering his mouth retracted into his visor, automatically disabling the audio synthesizer - it would do no good against a fighter like Adam.

"I've been told that I have an unhealthy propensity for running into explosions instead of away from them," he replied, rolling his shoulders and reaffirming his grip on his shotgun. "But enough about me - is this really sporting?" he asked, raising his firearm and pretending to examine it. "You're going to come at me with a sword when all I've got is a shotgun?"

"You're going to tell me with a straight face that you've never used that gun to beat a man's skull in?" Taurus shot back flatly.

Jaune grinned, "I never said that I _haven't_ ; and I feel like you're not going to let down your Aura to give me a better shot at doing just that."

The Faunus replied by closing the distance in a few long strides, and lashing out. Lacking the speed to dodge, Jaune attempted to parry with his weapon; Taurus's blade cleanly sheared through the metal of the furniture and the barrel, leaving him holding the receiver and most of the length of the barrel in either hand.

"You just cost the Atlesian taxpayers at _least_ five hundred lien," he quipped, stepping forward and swinging the dismembered barrel at Taurus's midsection. The crimson blade stopped the blow, as well as the three follow-up strikes; and then it sheared more of the metal off, just above Jaune's wrist.

He grimaced and tossed the rest of the scrap aside, backpedaling and firing the rest of the bisected shotgun from the hip; the shell sprayed wide, and he saw Taurus wince as several pellets struck his arms and legs around the area that the terrorist was able to defend with his sword.

Unfortunately, the Faunus was easily able to shake off the shot; and a cursory glance revealed that the stress from firing the poorly-modified weapon had split what little was left of the barrel apart, rendering the entire mechanism useless. Jaune unclipped the receiver and threw it aside as well, drawing his sidearm from his hip. In the process, Adam made no move to approach him, apparently content to stand at rest with a hand on his sheathed blade.

Jaune's eyes narrowed, and he finally took stock of the situation. He and Taurus had moved up the street in the direction of the outer cordon, allowing the Valean SWAT to circumvent them and press on towards the captured police officers; however, that fight was clearly winding down, as over half of the original contingent of White Fang fighters was nowhere in sight. Even as he watched, another handful of the terrorists broke off from the firefight and disappeared down the avenue and into alleyways.

' _A holding action.'_ Adam's troops had already recovered their imprisoned comrades, and were now focusing on minimizing their own casualties during their withdrawal by using the cops as a shield and a distraction.

The Legionnaire turned back to Taurus; the swordsman's smirk was all the confirmation that he needed.

"So you want to fight the long war, then," Jaune stated.

"Vale is neither Atlas nor Mantle," Adam replied, his expression settling into impassivity, "The humans here are not prepared. I have no desire to drag even more of my brothers and sisters into a new century of senseless blood and death; our war here will begin and end in a matter of months."

"And fresh from the victory, you'll use your new resources, manpower, and political capital to see Atlas isolated and destroyed."

Adam nodded, and his hand fell away from his blade as he took a single step forward. "Think about it, Jack-"

Jaune started at the name and the conversational tone.

"-The war that's made worse monsters than Grimm out of men, finally brought to an end along with the entire institution that saw it began and carried on for so long. No more families ripped apart; no more orphans forced to take up arms out of necessity born of senseless violence."

Jaune shook his head, but did not raise the pistol in his hand. "Your plan hinges on leveraging the entire Kingdom of Vale; these aren't people who would admit defeat without first being dealt a deathblow. You would see thousands of innocent people killed to end another Kingdom's war halfway across Remnant; that's not a price that I'm willing to see paid."

"Then _what will it take?!_ " Adam snarled, "You would see tens of thousands more of us killed in our lifetime, simply because you can't accept the one-time cost to see it end?!"

"Just who is this _we_ that you keep referring to?!" Jaune snapped back, throwing his arms out and gesturing with his free hand between them. "Your people, or mine? Or are you implying that you and I are somehow the same?!"

Adam barked an incredulous laugh. "You still won't admit it, after all of this time?" The Faunus threw his arms up and continued to laugh harshly. "You think that people like you and I can do all that we've done, kill all that we've killed, without becoming monsters?!"

"I'm not a monster," Jaune growled back, his knuckles turning white beneath his gloves as his fingers started to deform the reinforced grip of his sidearm. "I have no grand ambition. I don't go out every day intending to kill everything and everyone that stands in my way. Everything that I've ever done, to this day, has been for my men - my brothers."

"Then you're nothing but an ignorant, short-sighted, cowardly _hypocrite_ ," Adam spat venomously. "You _are_ a monster. _I_ am a monster. Your 'brothers' are all monsters just like you and I. Our superiors and predecessors are monsters, and if we don't see this to an end in our lifetime, future generations will continue to grow up to be monsters until either the Grimm have killed us all, or we've all killed each other!"

Jaune had heard enough. His face plate snapped back into place, and his pistol snapped up level with Taurus's mask. " **Don't try and pretend that you give a** _ **damn**_ **about saving humanity!"** he shouted. " **You would see all of humanity subjugated by force, and centuries of injustices repaid with humans as slaves to the Faunus!**

" **Every war that's ever been fought has been to 'end all wars,' and yet here we are today!"** Jaune carried on, his trigger finger twitching violently against the small, curved piece of metal beneath it. " **Your war isn't going to stop anything! This cycle of hate will carry on, and in the end, people will continue to die for it!"**

"And you would propose that we keep fighting our same old wars, committing murder as a part of our daily routine until the end of our days!" Adam's expression twisted fully into a snarl of disgust. "I will lead my people in our _final_ Revolution! I will tear down the veil of peace and prosperity that these corrupt institutions have draped over the eyes of the masses, and then I will lead an uprising that will rip out the very _foundations_ of those structures that have allowed themselves to become rotten to the very core!"

Jaune roared, and his feet moved. The pistol in his hand barked again and again as he closed the distance to the Faunus in a blink; but flashes of crimson swept the bullets aside until his gun clicked uselessly, and he was within arm's reach of his opponent.

He flipped the pistol around in his grip and lashed out at Taurus's head with a wide hook, intent on implanting the butt of the weapon into his skull; but his wrist was stopped dead against a hand that clutched a shotgun-sheathe, and his left-handed chambered punch opened at the last second to catch the hilt of the blade that flew towards his neck.

And so Jaune found himself faceplate-to-mask with the enraged terrorist, the two struggling for control of their respective weapons, but finding themselves to have parity in raw strength. Between their faces, the deadly crimson blade quivered under the restrained power of their impasse.

" **I WON'T LET YOU DRAG ANYMORE INNOCENT PEOPLE INTO THIS WAR!"** Jaune roared, his hidden face twisted into a mirror of the sheer rage before him.

"THESE PEOPLE WILL BRING AN _END_ TO THIS WAR!" Adam spat back, "WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?! WHY DO YOU INSIST ON FIGHTING ME WITHOUT PURPOSE?! _WHY DO YOU THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY FOR THE SAME PEOPLE THAT WOULD DISCARD ALL OF OUR LIVES WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT FOR THEIR OWN GAIN?!"_

Jaune's rage at Adam faltered; and then his rage at himself flared with a vengeance.

" _ **BECAUSE IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT I KNOW HOW TO DO TO PROTECT MY BROTHERS!"**_

He let off the pressure on his pistol and caused Adam to falter; Jaune reared back, and the butt of the gun crashed into the side of the terrorist's head - or rather, it crashed against the crackling red shell of his Aura.

The maneuver set Adam off-kilter, but still forced Jaune to let up on his grip of Wilt; the blade sliced through the air towards his face, and his eyes squeezed shut in resignation.

There was a terrible screech of metal slicing into metal; but no pain.

A moment passed, and Jaune finally peeked through a crack in his eyelids. A black diagonal gash crossed his HUD and vision, but the blade hadn't completely penetrated his face plate. His attacker had retreated outside of melee range, and was panting lightly as the adrenaline dissipated.

"You… Are a pathetic creature," Adam bit out softly, sheathing his blade. Jaune finally registered that the gun battle beyond had ended; the rest of the White Fang were nowhere in sight and Vale's SWAT officers had formed a semi-circle some distance behind Adam, their guns aloft as they looked on tensely.

" **Then why haven't you just killed me yet?"** Jaune growled back, a gloved left hand running absently across the deep gash on his mask. " **Three times, now. Three times that you've failed to put me out of my misery."**

"Because right now, your death would be both a mercy, and a waste."

Jaune's hand fell limply from his face, and set to reloading his weapon. Adam shook his head, his mouth set in a thin line.

"You fight without purpose." Taurus appeared to consider the statement, his head inclining slightly, before he amended, "No. You fight to die. You lack a greater ambition, and your grief over the deaths of your men drives you to seek a similar end - a glorious death 'in the line of duty.'"

Jaune remained silent. He flicked the release, and the pistol's slide snapped forward, chambering a round from the fresh magazine.

"I will not be the one to end you - not now," Adam concluded, allowing his blade to hang freely at his hip. The swordsman turned slowly to face the officers behind him, fixing his gaze intently on the rifleman in the center.

"You have two choices, Specialist," he carried on while staring down the cop, who began to sweat lightly. "You can do yourself a favor, and find your ambition - find a reason to continue on your path of resistance. Give _me_ a reason to seek your death.

"Or, you can do me a favor, and get out of my way. Whether you do so by leaving, or by ending your own life, is a choice that I leave to you out of respect."

Jaune's pistol rose once again, and he fired. The SWAT officers followed suit.

Taurus's form disappeared in a blur of color and motion, hundreds of bullets crashing against the blade in his hand as the crimson glow surrounding him grew brighter; until he stopped, his silhouette aflame. " **TAKE COVER!"** Jaune called to the Valeans; some on the outer fringes were able to comply, but it was too late for the rest.

In a flash of light and a spray of blood, half a dozen of Vale's finest were bisected or dismembered. Their dying cries rose into the morning air, followed by more gunfire. But within moments, Adam Taurus was gone.

Jaune did not pursue him, choosing instead to distract himself with vainly struggling to save the men that he had failed.

Just as he always did.

* * *

 **End Chapter 5**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** **Adam Taurus slashes his way into _Death Battle_. **

**This chapter marks the conclusion of the mini-arc that I aimed to use to introduce the primary cast of characters on a personal level, and in particular to exhibit how the changes to Jaune's backstory in this AU have affected his character up to this point; as well as to hint at how his current circumstances will influence his story going forward.**

 **In case it hasn't been made clear up to this point, I will make a blanket statement now: This is an AU in which I have written or rewritten history within the setting to affect the early lives of several members of the RWBY cast. As this particular story is concerned, the changes that will be explored have predominately affected Jaune.**

 **"Legionnaire Jaune," as I have taken to referring to him in my meta-notes, is my depiction of what I believe Jaune as we know him would become as a result of the circumstances outlined in the Prologue; as well as the events which have been described and alluded to, and events which will be referenced or described later.**

 **But, as I've also said, other characters have been affected by the same or other alterations which are part and parcel to this AU. For this story, the other characters concerned are Adam Taurus and the Schnee family; while another story (which I currently have plans to publish later) will explore changes affecting the members of the Rose-Xiao Long family, Hei Xiong and the Malachites, and my personal favorite Clockwork Orange and his colorful accomplice, Roman Torchwick and Neopolitan. And while the latter list won't be explored in-depth until their own work, several of the characters may come into play in the course of events in To Serve With Honor.**

 **I have grand ambitions and high hopes for this story, as well as for the entire world that I'm working to craft and depict, and I'd be delighted if you all would like to bear with me and come along for the ride.**

 **Thanks for tuning in, and I hope to see you in the next one.**

 **-Knightmare Frame Razgriz**


	7. Chapter 6

_\- To Serve With Honor -_

The light of the setting sun set the distant Vale skyline alight against the amethyst backdrop of the Vytal Sea. Glynda admired the peaceful scene from Ozpin's window, the clock face facade on the glass casting a great shadow in onto the stone floors of the office, across which Ozpin was pacing absently.

The Deputy Headmistress regarded her superior with a mix of concern and amusement. It wasn't often that a thought so confounded the revered Headmaster of Beacon, after all; not to mention that it was gratifying to see the man placed in a position which she knew quite well.

The window faded back to a luminescent aquamarine as the last beams of light trickled away, and Glynda finally decided that she should address the elephant in the room before the poor man started into another pot of coffee. "If you're truly so concerned about his mental health, you would be better off helping me to expedite Mister Arc's evaluation than working yourself up over his existing profiles and your own theories."

"There are two particular types of creatures that have served to thoroughly vex me throughout my many years, Glynda: Teenagers and soldiers," Ozpin grumbled, gesturing into the empty air with one arm while the other was held tight to the small of his back. "No matter how many of either I encounter and seem to puzzle out, another will always come along and completely confound any and all logic or reason that I might have previously associated with their kind."

"You're preaching to the choir in at least one regard," she smirked as the emerald wizard continued to mutter sourly to himself. When his path veered towards the desk, she swiftly vacated the space and moved to another window as he gracefully flopped into his excessively artful and complex swivel chair.

"I am afraid that the damage inflicted to Mister Arc's mental state by his short but colorful tour of duty may very well exceed even my most pessimistic expectations," Ozpin sighed, slouching forward to rest on his desk and pinch his brow between two fingers. "I had hoped that his partnership with Miss Schnee would've done more to repair that damage by now; but it would seem that even a comfortable station and a respectable peer and mentor have not managed to break through to him."

"Certainly not through any lack of effort on Winter's part, I'm sure," Glynda remarked wryly.

The Headmaster sent her a perplexed glance, to which she replied with a knowing tilt of her lips; but when the ageless man tilted his head faintly, the Deputy Headmistress groaned lightly in exasperation. "She's completely _infatuated_ with him, Ozpin," she stated as the most obvious fact in the world.

She narrowly avoided shouting in frustration when he had the gall to chuckle and shake his head in disbelief. "I'm serious! I'll be absolutely astonished if they aren't sleeping together by the end of the semester!" she declared firmly.

"You've always had a yen for office romances, Glynda," Ozpin chuckled good naturedly, his chair spinning away before she could rein in her shock and properly protest the idea. "Regardless of our temporary colleagues' hypothetical relationship, it would seem that we will need to keep a closer eye on our dear Legionnaire's psyche in the coming months. It wouldn't do for him to be paralyzed by indecision over something so benign as an identity crisis in the course of the events to come."

Glynda grudgingly refrained from pointing out the irony in that statement, instead choosing to turn her thoughts towards future arrangements for Jaune's treatment. "I'll see to it that he receives the treatment and support he needs to overcome these obstacles," she nodded.

"Hold onto that thought for later, if you will," Ozpin instructed with a short shake of his head.

Glynda's mental processes stumbled, and she blinked in confusion.

"I'm sorry?" she stated as a question.

"No need for apologies," Ozpin carried on unrepentantly, "Once we have reached a more stable juncture in our state of affairs, you are more than welcome to see to it that Mister Arc is treated in full for his myriad conditions." He turned to face her once more, his mouth hidden behind his folded hands as he regarded her easily. "For the time being, however, it simply wouldn't do to so severely upset his current mentality, lest we risk compromising his operational effectiveness."

"For Gods' sake, Ozpin, the man has no regard for the value of his own _life!_ " Glynda exclaimed with rapidly mounting anger. "You have a nineteen-year-old combatant that can emotionally flip-flop between the ages of seventeen and forty at the drop of a hat! He's lived his short adult life brushing off the deaths of close friends and comrades with a few passing words and a drink, and now you've placed him in a position to slow down and reflect on those losses in an unfamiliar environment, with no indication of how he's going to react to his own actions!"

She drew closer to the desk as she raved, composure deteriorating as her hands flew up to punctuate her ire. "If we don't approach this issue with the intent to _fix it,_ he's fit to either jump in front of a bullet for Winter without even thinking about it, or go postal in the middle of _this very school!_ "

"Which is why we will do precisely enough to see that such outcomes are avoided," Ozpin replied peaceably, which only served to incense Glynda further. "The fact of the present matter is that Mister Arc currently stands as one of, if not the single most experienced and disciplined authority in combating this particular strain of militant terrorism. This is in no small part due to his unique ability to look past emotional losses and continue to see the greater tactical and strategic picture of the situation, and to act according to his observations."

"What you call _unique_ , I see as unhealthy and definitively _self-destructive_ ," Glynda interjected in a low growl. Ozpin raised a finger and pressed home his point undaunted.

"Mister Arc and Miss Schnee are mutually stabilizing and driving forces for one another," he stated simply. "So long as we can keep at least one of them focused on the task at hand, the other will be compelled to follow along."

The Headmaster momentarily closed his eyes and exhaled heavily from his nose, before looking back up to fix his deputy with a resolute stare. "Vale needs Mister Arc as he presently is - nothing more, and nothing less."

"You're saying that we are going to knowingly take advantage of a mentally unwell and potentially volatile young man, and that we are are to stare this problem in the eyes - on a _daily basis_ , no less - and do nothing about it until he's served his purpose to you?!"

"To _Vale_ , Glynda," Ozpin corrected chidingly, "A sacrifice of the few for the good of the many; it is a concept that I can guarantee you Mister Arc is intimately familiar with."

Her rage abated, only to be replaced by a familiar sense of resignation and remorse. "Because what is one more dead son in a war of eternity," she muttered bitterly under her breath.

"His efforts will be handsomely rewarded once his mission has ended; we _will_ do right by him someday, Glynda." Ozpin now pointedly refused to meet her gaze as he spoke softly.

Glynda Goodwitch could only clench her fists until her knuckles turned white, and bite her lip until it nearly bled. The soft chime of the Scroll at her hip harmonized with a tone from the Headmaster's terminal, signalling an end to the conversation as the elevator began to hum softly across the room. "I'll arrange for Port to conduct his initial evaluation within the week," she said. Ozpin nodded wordlessly and collected himself as she spun on her heel and crossed the room.

"You're not going to stay to hear Mister Arc's debrief?" he called from behind her.

"I'll read his report and review the surveillance footage later," she replied tiredly without looking back.

The elevator chimed and doors slid aside, admitting a fatigued Legionnaire. He was still adorned in his scored and dirty armor, the scarred grey helmet held tightly to his hip. The white scars on his face stood out against his flushed complexion, and the cotton bandages around his neck were stained copper with recently-dried blood, probably from agitation or overexertion.

Even blackened and bruised with all of the physical evidence of his past and present deeds on display, Glynda could only describe the small and weary smile that he offered her as painfully genuine.

"Miss Goodwitch," he greeted with a respectful nod. She pasted a bland and vaguely sympathetic smile across her lips.

"Mister Arc," she nodded back politely.

He stepped past her to greet the Headmaster. She slipped hurriedly into the elevator. Once the doors were shut and the car was moving, she close her eyes and leaned against the brushed steel doors, pounding a fist weakly against the metal and letting out a wordless curse.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

Jaune halted several paces from the front of the desk. "Specialist Amsel reporting as ordered sir," he droned automatically, accompanied by a brisk salute.

Ozpin waved his hand dismissively with an amused smile. "At ease, Mister Arc," the Headmaster drawled, "Thank you for joining me. I do apologize for the late hour; I'm certain you'd rather be resting and recovering from today's ordeal."

"It's not a problem, sir," Jaune replied habitually, exhaustion creeping into his tone. "What can I do for you?"

"I was hoping that you might be able to offer your perspective on a few curiosities that I and the esteemed commanders of the Vale Police Department took note of in the after-action reports."

"I'll give you what I can, sir, but my training and experience really only deals with the White Fang's Solitas chapters," Jaune noted slowly.

"Hence why I am asking for your perspective," Ozpin said with a gesture. The Specialist made a noise of comprehension and nodded; then he blinked when the Headmaster pushed a button, and a panel in the floor in front of the desk slid aside to release a relatively comfy-looking armless chair. At the same time, Ozpin's computer terminal disappeared into the desk, and the desk in turn retracted slightly into the floor, creating more open air between the two.

"Being the Headmaster comes with some perks, huh?" Jaune observed dryly. Ozpin chuckled lightly in response, gesturing a hand to the chair.

"The bells and whistles are for distracting dignitaries and bureaucrats while I'm squeezing them for the money to keep the lights on," the older man smirked as Jaune settled into the chair, his armored frame almost uncomfortably flush with the edges of the seat. He set his helmet on the floor between his feet, and then fixed his gaze on the Headmaster.

Ozpin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands in front of his face. "I've already been read into the after-action review conducted with the survivors from the SWAT unit," Jaune winced sharply at the phrasing, "So let's start with the tactics displayed by the White Fang today."

"What did the VPD have to say about that?"

"Our dear keepers of the peace are rather stumped and stumbling on the matter," Ozpin sighed. "Which is why _you_ are here."

Jaune coughed awkwardly. "Right. So, I guess stuff like that ambush hasn't happened around here before?"

"That would be a no," Ozpin replied flatly.

"... The setup for that ambush sounded like a textbook Fang tactic for hit-and-run incursions in Atlas and settlements of comparable size," Jaune finally admitted, leaning forward and resting a gloved hand on his knee, the other coming up to scratch at the dawning scruff on his chin thoughtfully. "The Atlas chapter likes to stir up discontent by targeting law enforcement and first responders in densely-populated areas, both to maximize total casualties and property damage, and also to generate a lot of negativity in a hurry so as to tie up the military with the Grimm."

"Has Atlas developed any effective countermeasures?"

"Matter of perspective," Jaune shrugged. "The attacks haven't stopped, but the countermeasures, the response times and their effectiveness have improved by leaps and bounds.

"In terms of tech solutions, most of Atlas's emergency vehicles have been up-armored, or equipped with detection devices - or countermeasure dispensers in the case of military and law enforcement. Tactically, there are Skyhawk-based quick reaction units like mine on standby twenty-four-seven in most major municipalities to provide rapid site security and to respond to armed threats."

Ozpin nodded thoughtfully. "Did you have an opportunity to analyze the site of the initial attack?"

"Not so much," Jaune sighed. "I was focused on Taurus in the moment, and then Winter pulled me out as soon as the EMTs hit the scene. Between times zero and end, I had other priorities over site-survey."

"Understandable," Ozpin acknowledged, though he failed to hide a displeased frown. "I will forward you a copy of the CSI report as soon as it is made available to me; I would appreciate your analysis of the area, particularly in how such an ambush would stack up against the analysts' reconstruction of the scene."

"I'll have a look at it." Jaune offered a slow nod, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why was the Headmaster so insistent on pursuing that angle? "Was there anything else?"

"Yes, your engagement with Adam Taurus."

Jaune blinked at a small noise, and realized that his fists had tightened to the point that he had popped his knuckles without realizing it. "Taurus is a highly trained and incredibly skilled combatant," he rattled off automatically, "I knew that he would be present going in, and I was also aware that I was improperly equipped to give him a proper fight; but when he had his people start to withdraw, I realized that I had an opportunity to ratchet up the pressure by keeping him talking long enough for reinforcements to move in, and maybe I wouldn't have to fight him at all."

He grimaced, rolling his forearms unconsciously and unintentionally showcasing the deep grooves that had been cut into his bracers. "Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in that respect, and he was left with enough time to cut apart the SWAT detachment while I was recovering from his attack."

Ozpin's scrutinizing gaze bored into him; he was able to keep from fidgeting or diverting by the grace of having dealt with Ironwood's after-action shakedowns.

The Headmaster reclined slightly, his steepled hands resting in his lap as he contemplated Jaune. "You moved to engage a combatant against whom you had already previously failed - quite recently, I might add," the man said, as much a statement of fact as a question.

"I've dealt with Taurus and his kind before," Jaune retorted, only to wince immediately, "The Mantlese White Fang, that is - particularly high-level fighters with access to Aura and Semblances. Taurus is a respected commander as well as a fighter because he's as observant as he is charismatic. The membership of the Vale chapter is new to him, and he's capable of recognizing that they're fresh and untested; so based on my experience, I determined that he would be focused on recovering personnel and securing his reputation with the local units rather than throwing barely-trained fighters into a blender against a Legionnaire and a dozen veteran shooters from SWAT."

"And just how were you able to so quickly and confidently draw this conclusion?" Ozpin drawled, skepticism and accusation bleeding into his voice out of the blue.

"Because it's a decision that I myself would've made in his stead," Jaune snapped.

The air stilled, and Jaune's grip tightened again as he berated himself. Not only for snapping, but for so cavalierly declaring that he could - and would readily - identify with a terrorist's tactics.

He flinched when the Headmaster chuckled softly.

"Then it's clear that I'm looking at the right man for the job," Ozpin finally declared with an air of satisfaction.

He could only respond with a bewildered look and an instinctive question of, "Sir?"

He was expecting an inquisition like he knew was waiting when Winter finally found the time to properly grill him. He was expecting oblique accusations to the effect of him having delusions of grandeur, or some kind of death wish.

What Jaune wasn't expecting as he followed Ozpin's lead, rising to his feet and stepping around the desk to grasp the man's proffered hand, was a simple and apparently honest statement of:

"Excellent work today, Mister Arc. I can already tell that you're just the man that we need on our side in these trying times to come."

"T-thank you, sir," he could only stammer, as the Headmaster turned and paced back towards the grand window on the far end of the room, the glass becoming transparent as he approached.

"Chief Reagan has already informed me that he intends to comply with Commander Umber's insistence on blacklisting you from commanding their police forces," Ozpin called back over his shoulder. "Unfortunate in a practical context, but ultimately of little consequence given our current strategy of sending you incognito and 'under the radar,' so to speak."

"But if I'm going in as a green Huntsman-prospect; how am I supposed to offer my experienced input without outing myself?"

"Get creative," Ozpin replied easily, turning to face him. "Your official residence at the school means that Jaune Arc has easy access to not only the entire staff of Beacon Academy, but both members of the Atlas investigative team as well. Call it a learning experience; simply be careful with how much your "learning" affects your outlook on daily affairs, lest your colleagues and contacts in the VPD become put off by overtly foreign or militant views."

Become Jaune Arc the Huntsman, in short. Leave Jonathan Amsel at Beacon, but have him on metaphorical speed dial when the situation called for an alternative perspective.

Leave the Legion behind, until the situation desperately called for the services of an irreverent and efficient killing machine.

Jaune forced down his unease, and paid no mind to the painful knot in the pit of his stomach. "I think I understand, sir."

"Wonderful. I do believe that that is all that I wished of you for tonight, Mister Arc; thank you for your time, as well as for preparing your report in such an efficient and comprehensive fashion."

"Just doing what I'm good at, sir."

"Quite. Be sure to find Glynda at your earliest convenience in the next day or two; I recall that she has an administrative matter that she wished to have settled with you in the near future."

A personal call with Deputy Headmistress Glynda Goodwitch - didn't that just twist his guts even tighter. "I'll get it taken care of tomorrow," Jaune replied, suppressing a grimace. "Have a good evening, Professor."

"And you as well, Mister Arc," Ozpin returned with a nod and a genial smile. Jaune turned on his heel and swiftly departed the office, hoping that a change in altitude would alleviate some of the weight that was cast over his heart and his mind.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

He gave up on the thought of sleep sometime past midnight. Slinking silently from the sheets, he laced up his boots and draped his field blouse - a flat grey jacket with crimson piping and trim - over his shoulders for warmth.

A brief exploration of the access menus in his Scroll allowed him to remotely disable the motion sensor on the door and quietly edge it open enough to slip out. Glancing back inside briefly, he noted with satisfaction that Winter slept soundly as ever. A guiding hand allowed the door to slide closed noiselessly, and another Scroll command from a few steps away reactivated both the sensor and the lock.

Jaune's feet carried him at a sedate walk through the halls of the mostly-empty staff dorms, the few live-in administrative and support personnel having been spread widely across the length of the floor to maximize individual privacy. A short minute had him entering the upper levels of the central section of the academy, and after a few more minutes and an excessive number of broad and winding spiral steps, he stepped out into the night air.

He let out a huff of annoyance at the fact that the temperature was still positively balmy, even at one in the morning.

"Two short years and I can't even enjoy nice weather anymore…" he sighed as he headed down the path to the airship docks, shucking off his blouse and folding it over his arm.

The jacket was intended as an intermediate uniform option, utilitarian and durable while retaining some of the style and formal trimmings of the dress blues uniform. Matching grey shoulder boards adorned the epaulettes, each decorated with two crimson-piped bars denoting the rank of Corporal.

It was a damn sight more dignified and comfortable than the Legion's high-collared monkey suit of a dress uniform, in Jaune's opinion.

He slung the jacket over his shoulder by the collar, only to pause as he heard a clatter on the pavers behind him. Glancing back, he found a stout silver case resting on the path a few steps back. His eyes glazed over briefly, and he let out a soft curse as he recognized the object, hastily doubling back to scoop up the rectangular case and check it's battered and burnished surface for new scuffs.

He eventually reached an observation platform jutting off the main walk and took a post at the railing, setting his Scroll aside as the line rang and then tried to connect. As he waited, his drew the case from the pocket of his sweats on a whim, fishing out of cigarette. A search of the other inner pocket of his blouse uncovered the matching lighter; and as he clenched the stubby cancer stick between his teeth and lit the end, the call finally went through.

" _And here I thought you had sworn off smoking after Alexandros introduced you, and you nearly hacked up your lungs,"_ a thick Mantlese accent drawled in amusement.

"Found his case and lighter in my blouse when I went for a late-night stroll," Jaune finally rasped after taking the cigarette between two fingers and blowing a thin stream of smoke. "Kinda glad I did, to be honest; been a hell of a day, and Winter's keeping me dry until I can get out on my own time and find a quiet bar in the city."

" _The missus is keeping you on a short leash these days, ja?"_

"She's a little overbearing and gun-shy after Taurus nearly sliced my neck open again," he admitted grudgingly, finally turning from the stars hanging over the bay to look at the screen. "Like I said, it's been a day. How're you holding up, Abel?"

Charles Abel, Jaune's fellow Legionnaire and best friend since Basic, shook his head with a weary chuckle. " _I am in charge, if that tells you anything about how things have been lately."_

Jaune's eyes sharpened, and shaking fingers brought the cigarette back to his lips. "Aren't you still a Second Class? What the hell are you doing leading a team?"

" _First Class, thank you very much,"_ the blond-haired, blue-eyed Mantlese native corrected with a wag of his finger. " _And I am leading your whole section, not just my team."_

Smoldering ashes fell from his lips as he gaped at his colleague. "Where the hell is that fucking useless Corporal that I trained before I left?!" he demanded sharply.

He paled when Abel used his hand to mime a gun, stuck two fingers between his teeth and dropped his thumb sharply.

" _Locked himself in the staff bunk when I was not looking and had an intimate moment with his sidearm,"_ the Legionnaire First Class deadpanned. " _Had to kick in the fucking door again, only to find his grey matter painted all over the back wall."_ The other man sighed in annoyance, " _I had_ just _managed to get the_ verdammt _lock replaced after you kicked it in the last time; it will almost certainly be another three months at least before Supply will give me another."_

Jaune barely registered the distracted grumbling, too busy raking his fingers harshly through his crew cut and biting his tongue to keep from roaring his frustration into the still night air. After a solid minute of silence, he settled for slamming his knuckles into the stone railing, skin and stone yielding in equal parts under the blow; he stumbled back drunkenly and loosed a torrent of venomous Mantlese blasphemies.

" _Your accent has improved,"_ Abel noted once Jaune stepped back into the Scroll's view.

"It feels more natural when I want to get wring someone's neck," the Specialist acknowledged absently. "When did this happen?"

" _Three days ago. Regimental has already promised a replacement, but he will not be cycling in from Ammer until next week."_

"What're his credentials?"

" _Marksman with five years in. He has led a sniper section before, but this will be his first regular infantry command; still, he is coming recommended by the Chief himself, so I would wager that he has a decent head on his shoulders."_

A bit of the weight lifted from Jaune's shoulders, but his face was still set in a deep apprehensive frown. "Anyone else I should know about?"

" _That_ you _should know about?"_ At Jaune's glare, Abel sighed and closed his eyes. " _Koch got winged by a battle rifle last week; his shoulder is fractured, but he will survive and he has three weeks of medical that he has opted to take at Ramstein. Should do him some good."_ The man gained a sour look, and he refused to meet Jaune's eyes.

"Spill, Charlie," Jaune pressed stubbornly.

" _... Isaev bought it last week to a missile,"_ the Legionnaire finally admitted, his face falling slightly. " _An RPG team got a flank off on us during a gunfight in Residential; he was vaporized instantly. We barely found enough of him to fill a shoebox."_

Jaune wracked his guilty brain for a long moment before he flinched in recognition. "The Eastern machine gunner," he grimaced. "His assistant?"

" _Had just set him up with a fresh box and fallen back to help the medic treat a casualty from another section,"_ Abel responded peaceably. " _Isaac was the only one, and Xiong took out the shooter not a second later. He was torn up about it for a few days, but let us just say that the Corporal has been an effective distraction."_

With a disgusted shake of his head, Jaune drew and lit another cigarette, shifting it to the corner of his mouth. "He wasn't a bad kid, he was just out of his depth," he said of the Corporal.

" _He was two years older than you, and he was almost willfully incompetent,"_ Abel argued. " _Besides, I am not going to dissuade any of_ mein kinder _from speaking ill of the dead if it keeps them commiserating with one another and not spending too much time alone with a straight razor."_

"... Fucking shit, Charlie," Jaune finally bit out after a long pause.

" _This is why I am going to stop filling you in, Jack. You need your head in the here and now in Vale, not in Asteria where you cannot do anything about us or for us,"_ Abel stated flatly.

"It's still my section, Charlie!" he snapped.

" _It has not been your section for six months, John!"_ Charles snapped back, getting as close as either felt safe to speaking Jaune's real name over a Scroll call. " _You are a_ verdammte _Specialist, now! The world is your oyster! You are_ home, _you are building your future! It is time to get your head out of the snow and move on with the real world!"_

His fist slammed into the rail again, taking a chunk out of the masonry and sending it tumbling through the darkness to the waters below. "You're telling me to forget about _two years_ of my life, Charles," Jaune growled through gritted teeth. "You know as well as I do that there is no such thing as an _ex-Legionnaire_."

" _You are being dramatic, John,"_ Abel rolled his eyes, " _I am not telling you to_ forget _your life with us, I'm telling you to_ move past it _. We will all carry the Legion with us long beyond our time of service; however, you are in a unique position where you have seen some of the worst that it has to offer and been allowed to walk away from it."_

"Don't say it, Abel," Jaune begged hoarsely, absently tucking the cigarette case into his coat out of the Scroll's view. "I already know what you want to say, I don't need to hear it."

" _I think that you do, my friend,"_ Abel shook his head solemnly. " _You are not Corporal Dimitri Alexandros, John._ You _are still alive. And I think that I speak for the entire section when I say that it is better that way for everyone."_

The back of his throat tightened painfully, and anger and shame prickled at either side of his eyes as he bowed his head.

" _You have been given an opportunity, John,"_ Abel carried on, losing none of his previous gravitas. " _You are not meant to be wasted on the life of an enlisted man. You have experienced it, yes, which will make you all the more valuable in command."_

"I'm not a leader, Abel," Jaune sighed weakly at the old argument. "I've yet to lead a unit and bring everyone back alive."

" _A misfortune of circumstances that would dissuade a lesser man,"_ his friend dismissed doggedly. " _You have led willing men into battle knowing the risks of their profession and with an objective to be accomplished with the aim of saving more lives; and while it is true that lives have been laid down and lost, I have yet to hear of a mission under your leadership where the outcome has not been a net-positive, if not an outright victory."_

Abel was talking sense, but it still sounded too callous for Jaune's guilty conscience to accept.

" _As I was saying, you have been placed in a unique position, my friend."_ Abel started to tick off his points on his fingers, " _You have been transplanted into a marginally more secure and comfortable branch of military service under the terms of your original service contract; as such, you are only obligated to four more years of service, as opposed to a renewed six."_

"I'm not an idiot, Abel, I know what kind of benefits I've gotten from trading the Legion for the Specialists," Jaune snapped irately. "I'm in a cushier branch with more authority and a shorter service contract than most, making more money with nominal access to better weapons and equipment. Not to mention that in my current posting, I'm technically outside of the reach of regular military bureaucracy."

" _You have it_ made _in Vale_ _, John!"_ Abel threw his hands up and declared dramatically. " _Home field advantage, educational and networking opportunities, kickass battle scars!"_ The Mantlese man looked affronted at the dubious stare that Jaune was giving him. " _Chicks dig scars, John! You have to own that shit!"_

"Riiight," Jaune drawled slowly, "Because looking like I was hanged, clubbed across the head, and ate a load of birdshot is _sexy_."

" _Confidence and ambiguous physical evidence are two-thirds of an attractive war story."_

"What's the other third?"

" _In the case of a bar? A sufficiently intoxicated, dim, or accommodating audience."_

"Drunk, stupid, or game," Jaune shook his head incredulously. "I can't tell if you're speaking from experience or talking out of your ass to cheer me up."

" _Little of column A, little of B,"_ Abel admitted, waggling his open hand noncommittally.

" _My point is, I have had to twist your arm to get you to have_ any _fun in Solitas. Now you are about as far away from all of this grim shit as I could possibly want you to be, and Vale is your oyster. It is high time for you to step away from the twenty-four-seven soldiering mentality and live your life while you still have it."_

"Don't you mean while I'm still young?"

" _I am cheering you up, not lying to you,"_ his friend deadpanned. Jaune barked a laugh in reply.

The connection fell into a comfortable silence as Jaune contemplated the idea.

"I just don't know, Charlie," he finally admitted, "I've tried to imagine living my life like a normal person, doing a job that doesn't involve going out with arms and armor every day and killing people… and I don't think I can anymore."

" _I am not judging, John, considering that I am not much better,"_ Abel shrugged. " _But Beacon has resources for Huntsmen, ja? Counseling, classes, all of that good_ scheiße _? It is just a matter of taking advantage of what is available to you."_

"And if it's not available to me?"

" _You tell me, idiot; you were the one who managed to get our entire squad issued factory-new rifles and ammo after a few hours with the Quartermaster."_

Jaune groaned as he heard, rather than saw, Abel's waggling eyebrows. "If I've told you once, I've told a thousand times, Charlie; I didn't fuck anyone for those guns!" he barked indignantly as he cursed the heat rising in his face.

"' _Don't Ask, Don't Tell,' John,"_ the other man grinned. " _I keep telling you, in an all-male military, getting frisky with another guy is considered a relatively mild predilection."_

"Still, that's not my speed, Charlie," Jaune denied, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly as he waited for the heat to die off.

" _Clearly too much of a leg man, considering your present company."_

An image of Winter and Glynda Goodwitch standing across from one another - their prominent hips shifting unconsciously as they spoke - caused another spike of fire under his collar.

He took another drag of his dwindling cigarette, only to inhale too sharply and fall into a coughing fit when Charlie laughed knowingly - and he realized that the video feed was still on.

" _I have heard that most Huntresses outshine supermodels. Has some other deadly_ fräulein _caught our dear Corporal's eye?"_

"First off, Winter and I do _not_ have that kind of relationship, so it wouldn't matter either way-" Jaune rebutted fervently.

" _Not for a lack of trying on your part, I seem to recall,"_ Charlie grinned broadly.

"-And _second_ , I've only met one other Huntress so far."

" _So either the stories do them justice, or you have spent too much time with Miss Schnee and are looking for a change of pace."_

"She's the Deputy Headmistress of Beacon, Abel!" Jaune barked incredulously.

" _Hot for teacher? Color me impressed, Jack; shooting for the stars."_

This conversation was going the wrong way fast, Jaune suddenly realized. "I need to try to get back to sleep," he growled tiredly.

" _Some pleasant dreams ahead, I am sure,"_ Abel laughed. The other man then sobered up, and his smile fell into a tight, thin line. " _Get some help, John. It will help you to do your job, and it will also be good for you in the long run."_

"I'll look into it, Charlie," Jaune conceded wearily. "Give the section my regards, and tell Xiong not to go picking fights with Atlas troops that you're all gonna regret later."

" _Yes, Dad,"_ Abel drawled, rolling his eyes. " _Try not to go picking fights with the bull until you are ready to take him by the horns and pay him back properly."_

Jaune paused, and a sense of dread overtook him as he struggled with his next words. "... Charlie?"

" _Ja?"_

"Are we… good people?"

Jaune was staring off into the distant sea, but he could see Abel squeezing his eyes shut as he inhaled sharply.

" _... Would you like to rephrase that?"_

The cigarette in his hand finally burned out, the ashes and smoldering filter crumbling between insensate fingers and falling to the cliffs below. The scars across his body burned in its place, and a hand reached up to cup his jaw, his palm brushing over the fresh cotton bandages at his throat.

"Are we monsters, Charlie?" Jaune finally croaked.

* * *

Across the world, hunched over a battered Scroll and a too-small steel desk, Charles Abel exhaled, suppressing a wince as the bandaged gunshot wound on his abdomen protested.

The twenty-year-old Mantlese native ran a hand over his closely-shorn platinum blond hair, his fingers crossing seven old stitches on the right side of his scalp.

The desk below him was mostly clear for once, a sheaf of signed papers sitting in a tray to one side. The Scroll rested in a charging terminal, held upright at an angle. A handful of objects were arrayed around it.

To the right of Jaune's conflicted frown sat a battered and deeply scored combat knife, fifteen centimeters long and wrapped in a dark grey cloth. The copper-stained edge peeked out accusingly from beneath the fabric.

Beside it rested a disassembled handgun, the exposed barrel scored with carbon from Dust propellant. Four empty magazines laid beside the frame. He could vividly remember emptying every one of them.

To the left of his best friend and former section leader, a small pile of dingy metal tags had resided for as long as he could remember, the collection growing every day. Each of the twenty-three individual tags was embossed with a name.

Charles knew them all by heart. Could see every smiling, or scowling, or terrified face when he read each one.

Could feel the burning shame as his eyes ran over the other three new tags that he would never admit to Jaune.

Outside of the frame of the camera, he reached out and took hold of the knife and the oiled cloth, drawing it into his lap below the edge of the desk and allowing his hands to absently continue trying to remove the copper stains so that he coud take a stone to the blade and restore it's deadly edge.

"We are the product of our surroundings, my friend," he sighed, "As much as we are the sum of our choices. In our time, we have committed monstrous acts - this, we cannot and should not deny."

He leaned back and allowed his eyes to drift up the wall, to the tattered powder-blue flag bearing a silver staff ringed by a crown.

"Some choose to become monsters - to seek peace of mind by embracing the nature of their actions. For is it not easier to accept a monster being a monster, rather than a man committing the acts of one?

"But some men do not accept this course," he continued in the same distant, contemplative voice. "Some realize the evils that they have committed; a few dismiss them as necessities in pursuit of a future peace.

"But even fewer reject evil; and they seek penance by accepting the past, and using it to fuel their drive for the strength to achieve the same ends _without_ resorting to evil means."

Charles wrapped the cloth around the blade again and set it aside, hunching forward and meeting Jaune's eyes. "We have seen the evils that men are capable of justifying in the pursuit of 'peace,' my brother," he intoned gravely. "And it is now on us to rise above our acts, and the acts of those who would use us as tools to evil ends."

He offered his friend a tired smile. "You are stronger than you realize, John. And I believe that you can be one of the few to see us all to a better future. The others see this as I do, and this is why we will follow you. Because you _want_ our world to change, and even now you are pursuing the strength to see your - _our_ ambition - made real."

"So right now, I want you to use your strength to move beyond the evils of this place. Find your peace and move forward with your ambitions. And if your journey returns you to us, know that we will be here to lend you our strength once more."

* * *

It took Jaune some time to find his words, as his heart and his head swelled with emotion.

"... Thank you, Charles," he was finally able to choke out.

" _Rest now, John,"_ Abel ordered softly, " _Like you, we are are survivors. It is here that we shall remain; and we will speak again soon."_

"Of course," Jaune nodded, feeling exhaustion beginning to overtake him. The connection cut out, and he slipped the device back into the pocket of his sweats.

His tired mind was still swimming, but his shoulders somehow felt lighter as he draped his jacket across them. He lit one last cigarette and paced the grounds until it burned out.

By the time it did, he was at Beacon's central plaza, contemplating the grand marble statue - a hooded and caped man and woman, bearing a sword and battle axe respectively, standing stalwart above a monstrous Beowulf.

It was pretty naive, he mused, for Huntsmen and Huntresses - the most individually powerful protectors of mankind - to consider these mindless creatures to be the greatest threats to civilization. To not even consider that some of the worst monsters in history wore human skin.

Ignorance truly was bliss. But then, he supposed, the older generations weren't quite so blind, were they? Even as they studied and fought against the Grimm, students still trained against human opponents - against each other and even real Huntsmen and soldiers. An ambitious and optimistic approach to training the next batch.

 _Si Vis Pacem, Parabellum_. If you want peace, prepare for war.

Right now, the Huntsmen Academies seemed focused on preparing their students for peace in hopes that such a notion would stick.

Jaune had already fought in a war. Had studied on the battlefield, paid a tuition of innocence and blood. Committed evil at someone else's expense, and to another's benefit.

Ozpin wanted to make protectors of the peace?

Jaune would prepare them for war.

But first, he had to figure out how to get out of his own war.

* * *

 _\- To Serve With Honor -_

* * *

Glynda groggily shuffled into the staff lounge at a quarter to six, and was greeted by the smell of brewing tea and fresh coffee. She savored the heavenly aromas for a long moment, before realizing that she was not the one responsible for them.

Her gaze swept over the room, finally settling on the man hunched over a thick tome at one of the far tables, outlined by the first traces of morning light as he nursed a plain white ceramic coffee mug. He was dressed in a grey military jacket with crimson piping, two chevrons stitched onto each of the twin boards adorning broad shoulders; his sleeves were rolled crisply to his upper arms, showcasing lean and defined forearms and biceps crisscrossed by fading bruises and a smattering of thin white scars.

Her eyes finally reached his face, noting that he hadn't seemed to register her presence; his face was beset with lines that aged him beyond his years. A weight settled on her conscience as she took in his sunken eyes; he hadn't slept.

But her leaden stomach did a small flip when he finally glanced up, and his eyes came alight as he offered her a small, honest smile.

"Miss Goodwitch," he greeted with a nod, "Good morning. Sorry, the tea's going to be another minute; I realized that I'd forgotten to put some on when I made the second batch of coffee."

"Good morning, Mister Arc," she returned evenly, "It's no problem; I appreciate the gesture regardless." She hesitated a moment, before finally working up the gumption. "If you don't my asking… How long have you been here?"

His hand reached up to scratch at the thin blond hairs on his chin as he considered the question. "I think I finally found this place around four," he replied sheepishly, "I spent a while in the twenty-four-hour section of the library digging around in the course syllabi and the library directory trying to find the right textbooks and resources."

Glynda's face fell, "You haven't slept?"

"Can't say that I have, unfortunately," he shrugged. "Happens every once in awhile; I usually just end up taking a long walk and then finding something to occupy me until the day shift wakes up."

Her brows creased, "I see."

For some reason, further words failed her. She knew that she should press the issue - ask for further clarification and then suggest a solution or offer a referral.

But the Headmaster's words were swimming around in her head and causing all sorts of havoc. Not even that, but who was she to say that this young man even _wanted_ her help? Maybe Ozpin had the right of it; maybe the task at hand required her to cover the bases, but leave well enough alone.

Something at the edge of her mind snarled at that notion, and she was left paralyzed by indecision.

So occupied, she didn't notice as Jaune rose from his seat and turned off the squealing kettle. He set the metal carafe on a pad beside the basket of assorted pouches of tea before refreshing his own cup of coffee.

"Hey, uh… Miss Goodwitch?"

She started internally, finding that he was leaned against the counter with his mug in one hand, his gaze uncertain and wandering - trying to meet her eyes, but usually settling over her shoulder or on a different part of the room.

"Yes?" she finally responded, cursing herself for having soured the mood.

"I was wondering…"

He trailed off, rolling part of the inside of his cheek between his teeth for a moment. He huffed in irritation and closed his eyes for a moment, before finally meeting her eyes again.

"What sort of mental health resources does Beacon have available?"

Glynda's entire train of thought derailed and reset.

"A member of Beacon's faculty is certified and serves as our resident psychologist," she stated without hesitation. "Would you like me to set up an introductory meeting?"

"I… would appreciate it," he accepted reluctantly. He paused and contemplated something before continuing.

"I never trusted the military shrinks in Atlas," he frowned, "They sent so many of my men back with some half-baked words about 'honor and duty,' and the same medication that made them into paranoid or addicted wrecks. Even when Winter suggested that I go see a private practice as a Specialist, I could never be too sure about who was running on state funding and would give me the same load of crap."

Glynda felt her scowl twist to mirror his own. "Rest assured, our resident is a veteran Huntsman with a vested interest in seeing issues brought to the fullest resolution that he can offer."

"Who _is_ your resident, anyway?" Jaune asked in a lighter tone with a quirk of his brow.

Before she could answer, the staffroom door slid open, and a booming voice speared through her every complimentary thought and made her cringe slightly in surprise and dismay.

" _Oh-ho,_ what do we have here?!" a jolly, masculine baritone echoed, perfectly befitting the rotund mustachioed man to which it belonged. "Glynda my dear, an early morning rendezvous in the staff lounge with a strapping young suitor? How _scandalous!_ "

" _Good morning, Peter_ ," Glynda replied over her shoulder through gritted teeth with a roll of her eyes. She turned back to apologize to Jaune, only to find his features morphed into a sly and boyish smirk.

"A _rendezvous_ , you say?" the audacious little bas- _Jaune_ drawled before taking a sip from his mug, "Why didn't you tell me, Miss Goodwitch? I would've put my coffee down."

She fixed the young man with a flat look as Peter crossed the room with a hearty laugh. "That's our Glynda, lad - incredibly forward in combat, but never so much in matters of the heart." The Huntsman offered a spade-sized mitt, prompting Jaune to shift his mug to his off hand to shake it. "Peter Port, at your service."

"John Amsel," Jaune replied easily, before adopting a puzzled look, "Or Jaune Arc, maybe; I'm still not really clear on who I'm supposed to be around these parts."

Glynda rolled her eyes as Peter barked another laugh. "Ah, our newest Teaching Assistant! You'll be sitting in on my Grimm Studies lectures, then. Understandable about the confusion," the man leaned in and adopted a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "Old Oz's harebrained schemes usually end up like that, you see. Why, I once ended up playing three members of a barbershop quartet while investigating a smuggling outfit in Mistral's Central District; pulled it off, but the gig was absolute _murder_ on the chords."

"I'd have paid to see that," Jaune chuckled honestly, saluting with his mug.

Glynda cleared her throat, prompting both men to glance back at her. "Mister Arc, this is Professor Peter Port - Beacon's resident psychologist."

She reveled in the way that both men's eyes widened comically in surprise before they exchanged a look.

" _I see_ ," Peter hummed in comprehension. He clapped his hands together, and his expressed shifted into a genial smile. "Well, it's a bit early yet for business. But what do you say, lad - are you free today?"

"I- yeah," Jaune stuttered out haltingly; for a moment, Glynda felt bad about throwing the poor boy under the bus so cavalierly.

It went away quickly enough. He'd asked for it, after all.

"Topping," the Professor said cheerfully. "Now then, enough of the heavy stuff for the moment. I, for one, could do with a bit of kip and a cup at this early hour; Glynda, are we still expecting service at six?"

"Of course," she nodded. "The kitchen staff will have a light breakfast set up here on the weekdays by six o'clock," she elaborated for Jaune's benefit.

The Legionnaire blinked in surprise. "Sweet," he acknowledged approvingly. "Though I suppose that means I'll have to get Winter through our morning workout a bit earlier," he added thoughtfully.

Internally, the Deputy Headmistress grinned her wholehearted endorsement.

She could get used to having another staff member around with a sense of discipline - particularly one so close to the students' age.

Ozpin would have his Specialist and Huntsman, and Jaune Arc would receive the help that he needed.

' _Subverting authority is kind of satisfying,'_ Glynda mused.

Ozpin was no dictator; he would come to understand and appreciate her dissent on this matter, she was certain.

* * *

 **End Chapter 6**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Welcome back, everybody. **

**We're a little heavy on dialogue and light on action, this chapter; but, we're also getting through the requisite build-up to shit properly hitting the fan for Vale with regards to the White Fang.**

 **Not to mention that we're, oh, maybe three chronological weeks from the start of the semester at Beacon. You'll probably come to notice when we get there that I've called a few audibles with regards to the freshman lineup.**

 **So, we got to meet Legionnaire First Class Charles Abel, Jaune's best friend from Basic Military Training, and general partner-in-crime on the Mantlese front (note that Charlie's line are marginally more fun when read with a German accent).**

 **We also got a bit of rebellious maternal educator Glynda, calling her own shots and doing good by the younger folks.**

 ** _Nothing could possibly go wrong for Ozpin from that, right?_**

 **Next chapter we'll meet back up with our favorite doggo-dude, Carmelo "Pax" Paxton, and take a peek into the new day-to-day life of the Vale chapter of the White Fang.** **And, we'll also get a look at the practice of Peter Port: Huntsman Psychologist Extraordinaire.**

 **(I am neither a psychologist, nor a veteran; but I _do_ enjoy writing Peter Port, so it'll be a fun learning experience for everyone.)**

 **Thanks go out again to Crosswire for offering his two cents on this one.**

 **Thanks everyone for tuning in, and I hope to see you all again in the next chapter.**

 **-Knightmare Frame Razgriz**


End file.
